


Mary Potter and the Chained Servant

by PseudoLeigha



Series: Mary Potter [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dementors, Like, Lots of detention., Marauders, Now with More Muggleborns!, Slytherin Politics, Teenage Drama, Transitioning into mentor!Snape, a proper dueling club, an obnoxious amount of detentions., and Death Eaters on the Loose., but at least the Dark Lord's not possessing anyone inside the school..., but no regrets., more OCs than is probably reasonable..., time turners
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 291,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7903864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudoLeigha/pseuds/PseudoLeigha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary Potter is back for her third year, wherein the story continues to diverge from canon at an increasing rate. Mary’s activities have not affected the Weasleys’ trip to Egypt, or their getting a photo in the paper, or Fudge giving a copy of the paper to Sirius, so Sirius still breaks out of Azkaban. There are new classes to deal with, and Hermione has a Time Turner. Remus and dementors are at Hogwarts, which means there’s cause to learn the Patronus Charm. Mary is banned from Hogsmeade for a completely different reason than Harry was, and of course there are detentions from Snape to deal with for the previous year’s adventures. There are some staffing changes at Hogwarts, and the kids do some serious growing up (even Draco). Nothing big happens, but enough little things happen that the kind of build up to have a formidable impact on character development. There will be new rituals, new rooms to explore, more interaction with Snape and Lupin, and lots of side-plot development.</p><p>Check out the Backstory for other new things in the Mary Potter Universe since the last story was completed! http://archiveofourown.org/series/442555</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

THIS CHAPTER IS AN AUTHOR’S NOTE CHAPTER

**So remember when I said that I would hopefully be done with this story by September? I’m not. I’m going out on a limb here and beginning to post _anyway_ , even though I’m nowhere near as close to finished as I was when I started posting the last two stories because this one is _really long_ , and I don’t want to do all the formatting at once. So for the moment, this story will update once a week, on Mondays. **

‘Mary Potter and the Chained Servant’ is a sequel to ‘Mary Potter and the Call to Adventure’ and parallels ‘Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.’

THIS CHAPTER MAY CONTAIN INFORMATION CONSIDERED SPOILERS, ESPECIALLY FOR THE SECOND STORY IN THE SERIES.

If you have already read the previous books in this series, you should be aware that I’ve done a bit of ret-conning in order to make a few details work out in the later books of the series. Firstly, the Hogwarts muggleborn population ‘boom’ has now been adjusted to occur the year before the halfblood and pureblood post-war boom. This is because muggleborns were killed by Death Eaters as they began to exhibit signs of magic, normally around nine months of age, thus when the war ended, there would have been quite a few muggleborns around who hadn’t yet showed signs of magic (as well as a few late bloomers like Hermione). There were two muggleborns in the class of 1991 and now there are fifteen in the class of 1992.

Secondly, due to a plan I forgot I had made for Neville in book 7, it is important that his mother was Amos Diggory’s little sister, not Molly Prewett’s. Molly’s sister’s name is now Anna, a Hufflepuff who was a year ahead of Alice Diggory at Hogwarts, and who died fighting for the Order in 1979.

 **If you would rather skip straight to the story, feel free to do so:** nothing in this chapter is essential to your understanding or enjoyment of the rest of it, especially if you’ve already read the earlier stories in the series.

##  *RECAP Book 2*

See Preface to Book 2 for a recap of Book 1; See Preface to Book 1 for background for how this AU differs from Canon.

Mary spends the summer between first and second years with Minerva’s (deceased) husband’s family (the Urquharts) getting a crash course in what it means to be a proper pureblooded young lady. She visits the Grangers for the week of her birthday and has a bit of a breakdown over the fact that she’s falling behind on the muggle side of things and it seems that she’s never going to catch up, but Emma talks her through it. Lilian visits her at the Urquharts’ for the last week before Hogwarts.

Dobby shows up on Mary’s birthday, on the train, and at the Gryffindor/Slytherin Quidditch match. Mary calls on Cammy to capture the elf when he shows up in the hospital wing, and he is banned from Hogwarts by the other elves. Mary learns that he is mentally ill due to an untreatable memetic parasite called ‘tweelks’ which cause him to seek freedom even at the cost of his own and others’ safety.

Colin Creevey tries to stalk Mary the same way he stalks Harry, but Mary takes it a bit more seriously, and attempts to get a restraining order on him before he is petrified.

Lockhart accosts Mary in Flourish and Blotts, as well as on the first day of classes. She quickly grows to hate him, and repeatedly says that if she were really the Heir of Slytherin, she would have long since attacked him, rather than Finch-Fletchley. He really is a useless professor. The Hufflepuffs and Slytherins refuse to go to his classes for a month after the third petrification. He is outed as a fraud at the end of year feast, effectively ruining his reputation and career outside of the school.

Mary makes the Quidditch team as seeker. Draco is a starting chaser. Lilian is a reserve chaser. Hermione makes friends with other Ravenclaws in the absence of Mary and Lilian.

There is a lot more ritual magic in the second book than the first, including Mabon, Yule, and Midsummer rituals, a simple little birthday ceremony, and a crazy complicated re-embodiment ritual that Diary!Tom comes up with on the fly in the Chamber, because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Dumbledore tries to get Mary to accompany him to the Wizengamot over Christmas, and is haughtily rebuffed, because Elizabeth Potter is nobody’s pawn, even if she is technically also Mary Potter, Girl Who Lived. She also makes it clear that she doesn’t trust him after the Chamber incident. Which, really, is only fair, because he’s clearly becoming more suspicious of her as well.

Emma Granger (who has been taking tea on occasion with Catherine Urquhart) finds out over winter break that there have been a series of attacks at Hogwarts. She (with Catherine’s help) sends a Howler on the first day back to term, taking to task not only Hermione  and Mary, but also McGonagall and Flitwick, who agreed to inform her of any dangers at the school. Flitwick is NOT PLEASED.

Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood and Diary!Tom: Ginny receives the diary as in canon, but doesn’t start writing in it until after she gets to school. Her angst and sorrow over the way her roommates treat her and her crappy home life is much less irritating to Tom than her Harry Potter obsession (which she uses as a form of escapism from the former in Canon), so he doesn’t make a target out of Mary like he did Harry. Ginny realizes what’s going on over winter break, and tries a number of ways to get rid of the book, including several suicide attempts. Tom foils them all, taking over her body and repeatedly obliviating her. When Ginny manages to break free of the Diary, Luna finds it almost immediately. Tom rather likes Luna. She’s interesting. But after gathering another perspective on his presumed heir, he convinces her to give the Diary back to Ginny. 

The Veritaserum Plot begins in November, and runs through Easter. It entails the trio, Aerin, the twins, Morgana Yaxley and her boys, and Luna dosing all of the non-Slytherin students (and Lockhart) with Veritaserum and questioning them as to whether they are behind the attacks, in such a way that they won’t remember it as anything other than perhaps an odd dream. Professor Snape questioned all the Slytherins, so they are considered cleared. They actually do manage to figure out that Ginny is behind it, but not until Easter Hols, because it takes time to drug that many students.

What happens in the Chamber of Secrets stays in the Chamber of Secrets. The Weasley twins kidnap Mary to open doors for them in Parseltongue as they go after Ginny, into the Chamber. They slay the basilisk (which is a bit of a farce). Because they used magic to do so, rather than heroically stabbing it with the Sword of Gryffindor, its own magic, accumulated over a thousand years, flooded the Chamber, swamping their wands and killing all spells in progress, including the enchantments on the Diary that were siphoning off Ginny’s life force. Oops. Tom, who can use wandless magic, keeps them all trapped in the Chamber and makes them cooperate with him to get a damn body under pain of slowly dying of thirst, because he’s certainly not going to let them leave. He breaks the bond between himself and Voldemort, whom he clearly views as a bloody idiot, takes the kids’ memories of exactly what happened after the basilisk died, and lets them go (because there’s no reason to kill potential minions inside Hogwarts, and Lord Voldemort rewards those who serve him well).

Snape is heavily involved in trying to figure out exactly what happened in the Chamber, because Mary would rather he legilimize her than Dumbledore. He is also able to recognize the Horcrux much more quickly than Dumbledore, and sees no reason to keep this from Mary and her friends. He is also the one who insists on punishments for the Veritaserum Plot and the Weasleys’ kidnapping of Mary to go slay a basilisk. Everyone involved in the Veritaserum Plot (which may or may not have involved actual Veritaserum) will serve one hour of detention for every student they assaulted, on Saturdays over the course of the next term, with Snape. He needs the summer to come up with appropriately devious tasks/punishments for them to complete. The Weasleys have detention with him every day for the last eleven weeks of term for kidnapping Mary.

Snape makes certain observations while examining Mary’s memories of the Chamber which cause him to question whether Tom’s theory that Mary is actually his granddaughter (Mary speaks Parsel, and her mother was a ‘muggleborn’ who was suspiciously powerful and had a reputation for doing crazy unthinkable rituals) could possibly be correct. Tom dismissed this theory when he realized the connection between his alter ego and Mary, saying that she must be his magical heir due to soul magic gone really impressively wrong, but Snape convinces Mary to use a lineage revealing potion anyway, because now he can’t unsee the similarities between Lily and Voldemort. This shows that Lily Evans was, indeed, the daughter of Matilde Harrison (previously thought to be Lily’s aunt) and Tom Riddle. Mary and Snape agree not to speak of what Mary christens “the whole undead evil grandfather thing.”

And Hermione still managed to turn herself into a catgirl, because she was curious about polyjuice and got tricked by the twins.

##  *END RECAP*

This story will continue to diverge from canon at an increasing rate. Mary’s activities have not affected the Weasleys’ trip to Egypt, or their getting a photo in the paper, or Fudge giving a copy of the paper to Sirius, so Sirius still breaks out of Azkaban. There are new classes to deal with, and Hermione has a Time Turner. Remus and dementors are at Hogwarts, which means there’s cause to learn the Patronus Charm. Mary is banned from Hogsmeade for a completely different reason than Harry was, and of course there are detentions from Snape to deal with for the previous year’s adventures. There are some staffing changes at Hogwarts, and the kids do some serious growing up (even Draco). Nothing _big_ happens, but enough _little_ things happen that the kind of build up to have a formidable impact on character development. There will be new rituals, new rooms to explore, more interaction with Snape and Lupin, and lots of side-plot development.

**(Disclaimers and acknowledgements are listed at the end of the story.)**


	2. Prologue

#  Part I: Summer 1993

##  Prologue

###  Saturday, 7 August 1993

Petunia Dursley, once of Number Four, Privet Drive, sat bolt-upright at the shrilling of her bedside telephone. She had it off the cradle and was answering politely through sheer force of habit when she looked at the clock and realized that it was just past four of a Saturday morning.

The explanation of why, exactly, she had been awakened at this ungodly hour, did not endear the caller to her any more than her wretched sense of timing. Had her husband (who slept like a bloody log, the lucky sod) been awake to see it, he would have noticed a particularly sour, pinched expression reappearing on Petunia’s face: an expression she had not worn in nearly two years, because it was reserved for her least favorite duty in the world – dealing with the care of her only niece, Mary Potter.

For nearly two years, the Dursleys really had been, as Petunia so loved to think of them, perfectly normal, thank you very much. They had wasted no time after giving the wretched brat the boot, putting their suburban home on the market at once. Before the deal went through, Vernon had finally gotten a decent promotion, managing the new Leeds branch of the Grunnings Corporation, and so they had moved to a larger property on the outskirts of a town called Keighley, which was terribly convenient for his commute. The house itself was smaller, but with Dudders only home from Smeltings for the holidays and the brat gone (so Petunia had thought) for good, she hadn’t seen the need for _three_ extra bedrooms gathering dust. It had a long driveway and a good bit of land with a pond, anyway, and Petunia felt that she was moving up in the world. It wasn’t what she’d grown accustomed to in Little Whinging, but it was also entirely unlike the world she grew up in, and therefore eminently acceptable.

The Dursley family had not had a single encounter with the magical world since that witch in the outdated skirt-suit had taken the girl away. Even that ruddy blighter, the Headmaster, hadn’t bothered contacting them afterward. As Vernon said, even that stubborn queer had to realize that it was no good – Petunia had signed the papers and all – they couldn’t be made to take the girl back!

Life was, for the first time Petunia could remember, _good_ , with no weirdness, no awful, peeping neighbors, the move settled, plenty of money coming in, and her ickle Diddykins back in her arms for nearly another full month. She had, in fact, gone to bed in a rather pleasant mood, looking forward to visiting the Farmers’ Market in the morning and gossiping about the latest City Council Reforms with Carolyn Brady from down the way.

So much for that.

“Vernon.” She poked the still-sleeping man in the shoulder, hard. He grunted and rolled over. “Vernon! Wake up!”

“Wassat, love?” he mumbled, eyes still closed.

“I’ve just had a call from a hospital in Penrith.”

“Who d’we know in Penrith?”

“It’s the girl. Apparently she’s turned up out of nowhere, and they’re needing us to go sign some ruddy form or other so they can release her.”

“Can’t one of _their_ lot do it?”

“ _Apparently not.”_

“I thought you said we were shot of her!”

“We’re supposed to be.” Petunia didn’t know why Vernon was getting so snippy with _her_. It wasn’t as though she was any happier about this than he was.

He groaned, and finally looked at the clock. “It’s four twenty-seven in the sodding morning, Pet!”

“I know that, Vernon! D’you think I want to go haring off to Carlisle in the middle of the bloody night? No! I do not! But it is a proper hospital. That… _woman_ said they wouldn’t sign off on anyone but her legal guardians taking her – ought to’ve known nothing _those people_ do counts as legal – and I’d bloody well prefer not to have the coppers on the doorstep wondering what we’ve done with the girl of a summer and why she’s in a bleeding hospital up north and not here!”

“All right, alright. ‘M up, love. Keep your knickers on.”

Two and a half very tense hours later, the Dursleys pulled into a hospital parking lot and made a beeline for the front desk, determined to sign whatever they needed to sign, and get the bloody hell back to their son before he woke up and realized they had gone. Quite apart from anything else, Dudley was liable to burn the house down trying to make himself breakfast. Thankfully, he had been having a lie-in most days over his summer hols. Petunia had left him a stack of pancakes and a note promising a proper brunch when they returned, just in case.

They made it about ten feet through the main doors before they were intercepted by a tired-looking, petite woman with a head full of disheveled, honey-blonde curls and sensible shoes, who ushered them back outside again, handed them travel-cups of very strong, very sweet tea, and proceeded to talk their ears off with a cover-story, something about the girl getting lost on a camping trip with a school-group in the nearby National Park. Even Petunia, who had more than her fair share of experience with bossy, overwhelming personalities, was hardly able to get a word in edgewise. Fifteen minutes later, the Dursleys found themselves following the woman (Dr. Grant? Grand? Gran-something, anyway) into their niece’s room, where a nurse was waiting with a clip-board and the promised forms.

Vernon filled these out while Petunia, the brat, the doctor, and a curly-haired girl who was clinging to the brat’s hand stared at each other in stony silence. The nurse, helping Vernon with the paperwork, seemed oblivious to the atmosphere in the room.

Mary cracked first. “Hello, Aunt Petunia.”


	3. Resolutions

###  Saturday, 3 July – Saturday, 10 July 1993

#### Granger Home, East Farleigh, Kent

The summer after her second year got off to a great start, in Mary’s opinion, despite her trepidation beforehand. She had gone home from King’s Cross with Hermione and the Drs. Granger, instead of with Professor McGonagall or Catherine Urquhart. This was a concession to the fact that the Grangers would be in France, visiting Dan’s mother’s family, over Mary’s birthday, and the fact that they had more or less demanded to talk to the girls about what had been going on at school as soon as possible. After the incident with the Howler, Professor McGonagall was willing to compromise on when Mary would visit. She called it an olive branch, and said nothing more on the matter. Dan and Emma had taken the girls to dinner before grilling them mercilessly about their exploits at Hogwarts over the past two years.

The girls told them everything.

They had admitted to the Veritaserum Conspiracy (which Hermione confirmed really had involved Veritaserum – Mary now had no idea how they had gotten away with it), the Catification, the encounters with the Basilisk, the Unicorn, and the Thestral, Mary’s kidnapping, the weird memory-sharing thing Hermione and Ginny had done, Ginny’s possession, lying to their mind-reading professors and sneaking around the school for any number of reasons. They described the Yule ritual, and Mabon, and then (in trying to prove that all ritual magic wasn’t terrifying) Midsummer, the previous year’s Yule, and Samhain. (Somehow, the adults didn’t find the additional stories all that reassuring.) The only thing Mary didn’t mention was the whole evil, undead grandfather thing, which she still hadn’t told Hermione about, either.

The Grangers already knew about Dobby’s attempt on Mary’s life in her first Quidditch match, in addition to Quirrell’s possession, all the times Mary had almost died first year, and the stupid obstacle course. These were brought up by Dan, who was the more vocal in his arguments that neither of the girls should go back. Emma, on the other hand, was most concerned with the utter disregard for laws, safety, and common decency the girls demonstrated with the Veritaserum Plot. She had lectured them about it until Hermione looked like she was about to cry. None of them went to bed until well after midnight, and Mary had expected that the elder Grangers would require weeks more talking-around before they agreed to let Hermione return to school. They certainly had last time, when they first found out about Quirrellmort.

Even after resolving to tell them everything, Hermione had been very worried that her parents would take her away from Hogwarts forever. She had sneaked into Mary’s room after her parents went to bed, and they talked for at least another hour about it. Mary was just relieved to not be lying anymore to two of her favorite adults in the world. She was positive that Hermione could convince them to let her return – after all, most of the things they had done over the past year were the older girl’s idea. If she just promised not to stir up any more trouble, next year should be much easier. After all, how likely could it possibly be that the Dark Lord (in any incarnation) would manage to possess people and infiltrate the school _three years in a row_? In the end, that was the argument that convinced Hermione to go to her own bed.

Still, even Mary was surprised when Emma and Dan appeared the next morning, looking like they hadn’t slept at all, and immediately told the equally tired girls that they would do it: they were ‘all in’ and would do everything in their power to support the girls, and become a part of Magical Britain just as much as the Mundane UK. It was left unsaid that they would be doing everything in their power to fix the many things they saw as lacking in the magical world, as well, though it was heavily implied by the immediate flurry of planning.

Dan had been given permission to take full advantage of the banking system, in order to fund a private magical library and extensive new wards and various enchantments for the house. Emma was outlining objectives to begin networking in earnest, beginning with Professor McGonagall and Catherine Urquhart, but also, if she could find one, a good muggleborn solicitor. Dan was making lists of all the magical amenities he wanted to procure – a floo connection was chief among these, but he wouldn’t say no to a few space-expansion charms for the soon-to-be-growing library and possibly magical alternatives for heating and air conditioning. Emma reminded him that electricity tended not to work across strong ward-lines, and he re-routed his muttering and list-making to figuring out how to procure a generator for the house, to place inside the wards, and considering whether he could get it enchanted to run, rather than burning petrol. Emma took over Dan’s initial list, adding ‘anti-muggle-repelling amulets’ and ‘equivalent of wizarding telephone directory’ and half a dozen topics of books to look into, before asking Mary very seriously if she thought Professor McGonagall might allow the Grangers to join in on the Annual Muggleborn Shopping Trip again, for networking purposes.

Mary said that she would have to owl the Professor, and Emma went back to scribbling. Mary shot a bemused look at Hermione, who was rolling her eyes at her oblivious parents, relief that she would apparently be allowed to return to school clear on her face. The older girl grabbed the last piece of toast and the front section of the Independent from a neglected stack of Sunday papers.

“I’m going back to bed,” she whispered as she slipped past Mary.

The Slytherin thought this sounded like an awfully good idea herself, and snagged the abandoned Prophet to read until she fell asleep. (The Doctors Granger had let their subscription lapse after the girls started school, but decided to renew it on learning about the basilisk attacks at Hogwarts, just to keep an eye out for any other major issues in the magical world that no one saw fit to tell them about. Hermione insisted that this was incredibly passive-aggressive of them, but Mary thought it was a sensible response, even if ninety percent of the articles were little more than gossip.)

As it turned out, that morning set the precedent for Mary’s stay with the Grangers. In many ways, it was like her previous visits, but this time, when Dan and Emma came home from work, they researched and wrote letters to the wizarding world with a purpose, rather than in idle curiosity.

The second major difference between this summer and the previous one, so far as Mary could see, was that Hermione had decided not to return to summer school. She confided to Mary that by the end of the class the previous year, she had found it just wasn’t worth being locked up with the delinquents all summer. Plus they had made her re-take Year 7 with the other kids her age, when she had already been a year ahead before she went to Hogwarts.

Instead, she begged Dan to take them to Dillon’s on his day off, and picked up a stack of books designed to help Year 11 students prep for the GCE O-levels. After all, she explained to the younger girl, it wasn’t like they had to worry about Entrance Exams, and if she knew what she needed to learn, she could study year-round, anyway, and just take the exams independently either next summer or the one after.

Mary nodded along, distracted by the sight of so many books in one place. She had never been to a muggle bookstore before. Dillon’s was much larger than Flourish and Blotts. It was almost as large as the Hogwarts library, and all of the books were for sale. She quickly regretted the fact that she had no muggle money, and got lost wandering in the extensive fiction section while Hermione looked at the academic books. The Ravenclaw found her two hours later, giggling over a book about a ‘wizzard’ who lived in a world that flew through space on the back of a giant turtle.

“Hey, Liz, ready to go?”

Mary sighed. “I guess so…”

“What’re you reading?”

She held the book up so Hermione could see the cover.

“Oh! I have that at home, somewhere. You can finish it later. Come on, dad said we had to leave by one, and it’s nearly two already.”

“What did he need to do?”

“No idea, but he’d stay here even longer than I would if he didn’t give us a deadline.”

Mary sniggered at that. “Runs in the family?”

“Mum says I take after him when it comes to books,” Hermione nodded. “This is my favorite store. Dad and I used to come here on Saturdays and stay all day. But I do want to leave eventually.” She held up one of the maths texts she had chosen, and Mary saw that it was wrapped in plastic. “I can’t read these here.”

_Ah, yes, of course_. Mary grinned. “I don’t have a favorite store. I’ve never been shopping just because before.”

“ _What_?”

“You heard me. When would I have gone shopping for fun?” Mary asked irritably, thinking that she shouldn’t have brought it up. This was almost bound to lead to an uncomfortable conversation about her life with the Dursleys.

Thankfully, however, Hermione’s mind seemed to be running off on a different track entirely. “We’ll have to see if mum’s got plans for Friday, then. It’s her day off, and I _know_ she thinks you need more clothes. We’ll go to Chequers and have a girls’ day.”

Mary rolled her eyes at the idea of Hermione, of all people, wanting to have a girls’ day, but was spared having to think of a response by Dan, whom they found sitting cross-legged in an out-of-the-way corner, surrounded by books on electrical engineering and generators.

When Hermione pointed out the time, he jumped up with an almost comical “Egad!” and rushed them to the checkout. He explained when they were back in the car that he wanted to get to Gringott’s before they closed, so that he could look into currency conversion fees to, as Emma put it, facilitate his assault on the British economy.

An hour later, Mary and Hermione took a mine-cart ride to visit Mary’s vault while Dan was escorted to a meeting in some back room of the bank by a rather shifty-looking goblin called Sinkshaft. Hermione was very impressed by the piles of gold and silver coins, much to Mary’s embarrassment. She hadn’t been trying to rub it in that she had money. She only suggested that they come to the vault proper because she hadn’t wanted to sit in the lobby while Dan had his meeting, and it was clear the girls weren’t invited. It had been nearly two years since she had seen it herself, and she had rather forgotten how overwhelmingly gaudy it was, a literal vault full of gold. The Grangers were not poor by any means, but Mary suspected there was far more cash in her trust vault alone than in the Grangers’ savings account. She filled a bag with galleons so she wouldn’t have to return before she did her school shopping, and avoided mentioning the fact that this was only a fraction of the family wealth that she would inherit on her majority.

Hermione must have noticed her chagrin at the social faux-pas of displaying her wealth so blatantly, because all she said was, “We’re definitely going shopping now. There’s no way you can have that much gold, and only a week’s worth of clothes.”

Mary’s blush grew deeper at that. She had been wearing the jeans the Grangers had given her at Christmas and her wizarding under-shirts, which looked muggle enough to pass for a week of lounging around the Grangers’ house. She always wore robes at school. She hadn’t realized that Hermione had noticed how small her wardrobe was. It wasn’t like she really _needed_ more clothes, but she really didn’t have many compared to the older girl, whose closet was packed. For someone who insisted she valued practicality, Hermione Granger had a lot of _stuff_ she hardly used.

Dan eventually returned from his meeting with the goblins, looking rather put out and grumbling about bloody clever buggers and how it had been too good to be true, anyway. From what Mary gathered, his brilliant plan to make a lot of money very quickly wasn’t going to work, because, despite the fact that it wasn’t illegal to buy gold in Magical Britain and sell it in the UK (unless it was considered smuggling on the muggle end), the goblins, who controlled the vast majority of actual gold in the magical world, weren’t keen on the idea. In fact, knowing that he planned to funnel it out of their economy, they outright refused to sell him any. It seemed they preferred to keep the gold itself in their own hands, even more than they would have appreciated watching humans cheat each other by taking advantage of their own stupid laws. And, of course, if there was no gold for sale, the plan would go absolutely nowhere, very quickly.

He cheered himself up by teaching Mary how to make the ratatouille she had been too out of sorts to learn the year before, and Hermione begged Emma over dinner to take the girls to the Mall before Mary had to go back to the Urquharts’. She agreed almost at once, despite Mary’s protests that she really didn’t need anything.

Wednesday and Thursday passed in a blur of muggle pleasures – television and radio and records and computer games – as Hermione readjusted to electricity, and Mary enjoyed the novelty of entertainments she had never been allowed to use at the Dursleys’, and didn’t have access to in the magical world. There would be time for books and practicing spellwork later.

The shopping trip was much more fun than Mary had expected. Shopping with Aunt Petunia was a wretched affair: she never got to try anything on herself, or even look for things in her size, but had to follow Aunt Petunia and Dudley around, pushing the basket and nodding when Aunt Petunia said how sweet her little angel looked in whatever ghastly outfits she chose for him. Shopping with Professor McGonagall and then with Catherine had been an exercise in getting what they needed for school as quickly as possible. Shopping with Emma and Hermione, however, involved giving her friend advice on colors and being buried under a pile of every sort of clothing before being shoved into a fitting room of her own. Hermione must have found time alone with her mother to explain that Mary had never been shopping before, because even though the main purpose of their trip was supposedly clothes for Mary, they also went into a number of different shops “just to look around.” To make it a ‘real’ girls’ day, they had ice-cream for lunch and stopped at a chippy on the way home for dinner.

“Don’t tell Dan,” Emma had said with a grin, “but some days just demand greasy and entirely horrible food, not perfect risotto or beef bourguignon.”

Hermione had solemnly promised not to give away her mother’s guilty pleasure, while all Mary could do was laugh.

By the time the girls made it back to the Grangers’, Mary had enough clothes and shoes and little extras, like the sweet-smelling candle she had bought for her desk at Hogwarts and the fountain pen she had found for Lilian’s Christmas gift, that she could barely close her trunk. Emma helped her re-organize everything to fit while Hermione kept trying to lend her books to take with her to the Urquharts’. She eventually accepted the novel she had started at the bookstore, but there was no room for the others. She had no idea what she was going to do when she got her new school supplies. Perhaps, she thought anxiously, Catherine would have a solution. Surely the older girl had had a full wardrobe at school?

Before Mary knew it, Saturday morning arrived, and with it, Professor McGonagall, come to fetch her back to the Urquharts. She arrived in the back garden with a quiet ‘pop’ and greeted the elder Grangers rather stiffly. They made stilted small-talk for a few minutes, and with promises to owl before they went to get their school supplies and hugs all around, Mary was whisked away through the crushing blackness.

###  Saturday, 10 July – Monday, 26 July 1993

#### Urquhart Mansion

Catherine was waiting in the Apparition Room when Mary and Professor McGonagall appeared. She was clearly pleased to see Mary again in person, after having had only letters for months, but she insisted on maintaining the proper degree of formality and distance, which came as rather an unpleasant shock. After ten months with very little practice, going back to formal manners was a difficult adjustment.

It took nearly a week for Mary to get back in the habit of propriety. Catherine seemed disappointed in her for forgetting so much over the school year, but not entirely surprised. Laina, now seven, was now officially in training, just like Mary, which meant their lessons were somewhat restructured compared to the previous year.

Laina and Mary were excused from morning history and maths lessons in favor of dance, piano, or drawing lessons, depending on the day of the week. Tommy and Angel joined William for their magical theory and wand movements lessons before lunch, and Catherine began teaching Laina the simplest of charms, using a great-great grand-uncle’s wand – _demeler_ to detangle hair; _mundo_ to clean one’s teeth; _lumos_ to create light; and _point me_ , a direction charm that worked within the house wards to find almost anything except, they quickly discovered, Mary. Catherine said Aunt Minnie or the Headmaster must have put anti-tracking charms on her for safety outside the school.

Mary, meanwhile, was set to working on the list of International Dueling Commission spells, all of which Catherine said ought to be covered in DADA at some point, but probably never would be. Mary considered defending Remus Lupin, whom she knew would be the next DADA professor, and who seemed like a surprisingly competent sort of man. She was sure he would teach them more than the last two ‘professors’ combined. In the end, however, she didn’t even mention that she knew who the new DADA prof would be, because she actually enjoyed practicing the dueling spells, and suspected that she would have to learn cleaning charms or something if she mentioned that she thought she would be learning them in class.

While they practiced, Catherine lectured. She allowed Mary to choose the first topic of these lectures, because, as she pointed out to Laina, Mary would only be there for a short time, and her needs were more immediate than those of the seven-year-old. Mary, who had been hoping that she would be allowed to request specific lessons, already had a list of things in mind, mostly to do with things she had seen over the course of the year at school. They started with birthdays and birthday rituals, which lead quite naturally, over the course of the month, into discussions of rituals related to birth and death, funerals, weddings, and then other kinds of family alliances, like fostering and godparenthood and treaties and formal bonds of politics.

From there, Catherine moved directly to the development of the Wizengamot as a political entity, its current organization, and the Potter Heir’s role within it (when she came of age). Mary mentioned that Dumbledore had offered to let her sit in on a session, a topic which she had neglected to include in her letters over winter break, and was flatly informed that that would have been highly inappropriate. Children were not welcome in the formal chambers of the wizarding government until they were at least thirteen years old, and then they were invited strictly to accompany their Heads of House for the purposes of learning the course of formal proceedings. In short, Mary had been right to refuse the old man, regardless of the reasons for his offer. Catherine assured her that when it was time – probably over _next_ winter break – Lord Urquhart would contact her about observing a session.

After lunch, everyone returned to classroom lessons. Mary was introduced to Formal Logic, which was a fiendishly difficult, tedious sort of maths that Catherine said would help with Arithmancy, and set to working on her summer homework. Laina and William were now responsible for helping Tommy and Angel with their reading, writing, and arithmetic. Catherine minded little Bryce, supervised the older children, and read muggle or wizarding history and literature aloud, pausing to answer questions when her young tutors could not.

At three, the younger children were dismissed to draw pictures from the stories Catherine had been reading, and play in the nursery under the supervision of Tiffy, the Nursery Elf. Laina and Mary were sent to dress for tea and begin whatever assignments they were given for the evening. Laina was spared the crash course Mary had been given in lineages and family relationships because, she explained (with a degree of condescension only a seven-year-old could manage), that’s what the littles were learning in the mornings now. She was also spared the embarrassment of endless essays on proper etiquette, as she had grown up with, in Mary’s opinion, entirely too many forks, and already knew how she was expected to behave at the table.

Tea was, in many ways, less awkward than it had been the year before. For one thing, Madam Urquhart, Lady Urquhart, and Mrs. Urquhart now joined them only very rarely. For another, Mary now knew how to act around the women of the house, and at almost-thirteen, was no longer considered a bumbling child, to be corrected at every turn. On the other hand, she was now expected to have opinions on things like current events and recent developments in the Wizengamot, and reasons for those opinions. The little smirks and raised eyebrows Ms. Primrose and Ms. Nanette threw at Catherine when Mary said something indefensible were infuriating. The worst part was that they would never explain why they were laughing at her. She was almost convinced half the time that they were only making faces to disconcert her, but then afterward Catherine would explain exactly where she had made a false assumption, or said something that would have been terribly insulting to Lord Burke, or else something incredibly naïve that marked her out as a muggle-raised child, and Mary would be set to researching points of order and recent history and major decisions of the Wizengamot over the past fifty years in the library while Catherine and Laina practiced French in the background.

On days when Mary managed to avoid putting her foot in her mouth at tea, she was allowed to go flying before dinner. The Urquharts had heard of Mary’s outstanding performance as the Slytherin seeker the previous year, and though Lord Urquhart insisted that Quidditch was no sport for young girls, Mr. Urquhart and his sons whole-heartedly approved. Mary overheard Mr. Urquhart telling his father that it would be a crime to force her to give up something that she had such an obvious talent for, and Mr. Stephen and Mr. Conrad even joined her to race around the house and gardens on occasion. One weekend they let her help teach Laina and William how to fly for the first time, which was very exciting. After that, William was allowed to accompany her, provided she didn’t show off any seeker stunts, or let him fly too high or too fast. Laina stuck her nose firmly in the air and refused to join them. Mary was pretty sure this was only because she had developed a dislike of the older girl, because she had appeared to like flying with her father and uncle well enough. She decided not to mention it – it wasn’t like Laina couldn’t practice with her family after Mary went back to school, and Mary had more important things to worry about than the jealousy of a child she only saw two months out of the year. In fact, she was fairly certain that Laina’s attitude problem wasn’t even in her top five concerns for the summer.

The thing she was most worried about was the thing she was most eager not to think about at all: the fact that Tom Riddle, the not-quite-late Lord Voldemort, was her biological grandfather. She had promised Professor Snape that she would not discuss it with anyone or release the information unless it was, in some way, necessary. But it was really bothering her, and she wished she could, if only so that Emma could tell her that it didn’t matter in the slightest, or Lilian could make a joke about how the Dark Tosser’s own granddaughter blew him up, or Hermione could research spells to use their relationship against him (because she was sure the Ravenclaw would). But of course she couldn’t be sure that they would respond so positively, anyway, or that it wouldn’t get out to their ever-fickle peers. She had nightmares about Wraith Voldemort calling her ‘granddaughter,’ but not nearly as often as she had nightmares about howlers and Daily Prophet headlines denouncing her as the Next Great Evil or the Dark Lady of Slytherin.

Second to the evil, undead grandfather thing was the fact that Professor Snape had been friends with her mother – very good friends, apparently – and had invited her to be informal with him in private. She couldn’t say exactly why this was so strange, except that it was odd to call such an intimidating figure by his given name. Thanks to Catherine’s lectures, she knew that when Snape said that he might have been her godfather if things had gone differently, what he was really saying was that he should have had nearly as large a role in her life growing up as her own parents – certainly more than an estranged muggle aunt like Petunia.

Godparenthood in the magical world was a bit different from what she knew of the Christian practice. Aunt Marge was Dudley’s Godmother, but she certainly didn’t have as much say in his life as Aunt Petunia, and she definitely didn’t help the Dursleys with his education at all, though she did rather smother him in gifts at Christmas and his birthday. According to Catherine, magical godparents were a more modern replacement for the fostering system, and held the same sense of bringing a child into one’s family. Each parent chose one person, normally from outside their family, to be a godparent to the child. James Potter had chosen Sirius Black, and Lily had chosen Alice Longbottom, but it wasn’t always a godfather and a godmother. Laina had two godmothers. If Snape hadn’t been a Death Eater, when Mary was born, he and Black would both have been her godfathers.

Godparents or _compatres_ were bound to their godchildren by family magic, and were recognized by society as equally responsible for a child’s upbringing as the parents themselves. It was unforgiveable for Black to have betrayed Mary and her parents, but he was in Azkaban, now, suffering for that crime, and Alice Longbottom, Neville’s mum, was apparently in St. Mungo’s with brain damage from the war, so Mary shoved aside the whole issue of whether or how she ought to try to reconnect with either of them fairly easily. She thought she might ask to visit Alice in hospital over the winter hols, but she would talk to Neville about it first.

None of that solved the problem of whether or how to deal with Snape, now that she realized that he had more or less admitted that he should have treated her like a daughter or at least a very close niece all these years. In fact, she was pretty sure he meant that that was how he thought of her now, because otherwise he never would have brought it up. She wondered what he thought she meant when she said that she thought she’d have liked it if he was her godfather. She hadn’t had any idea that it was anything nearly as serious as it apparently was. He was her favorite professor, but she didn’t know that she thought of him like a parent, and she certainly hadn’t meant _that._ On the other hand, he could hardly be worse at it than Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon.

Mostly she couldn’t decide what to call him. ‘Severus’ was right out, and ‘Professor’ was too formal. She suspected that if he was really her godfather, she would have grown up calling him ‘Uncle Severus,’ and that would be appropriate, much like she was now allowed to call the Professor ‘Aunt Minnie,’ in private, but the only Uncle she had was Vernon, and she didn’t want to put them in the same category. (Professor McGonagall was very strict and formal, upright and stern, not altogether unlike Aunt Petunia in some ways and Aunt Marge in others, though she was much nicer. Professor Snape was very different from florid, blustering Vernon.) She supposed she could have grown up calling Remus ‘Uncle Remus’ too, in another life, but for some reason it wasn’t nearly as odd to think of him only by his first name as it was for… Severus. _Nope, still weird._ That left only ‘Snape’ or ‘sir’ which were the compromise she had settled on almost at once. It was still unsatisfying.

Mary’s third major preoccupation throughout the month of July was the rituals which would happen at the end of it. Catherine had promised that the Urquharts would introduce her to magic on her birthday, as she and her friends had done for Hermione and Lilian at school, and that she would be welcomed to participate in the Lammas ceremony that night.

From what Catherine had said the previous summer, Mary had the vague recollection that she would have to reflect on choices, commitments, and plans for the coming year. The meditation was important because it directed what you would see over the course of the night. Unfortunately, Mary had no idea what the next year would bring. She didn’t have anything she was particularly trying to accomplish, except doing well in all her classes and not stumbling into some insane and arguably illegal adventure… again. She didn’t even think she had any major decisions to make, unless you counted figuring out how to tell Captain Flint that she might have a conflict with Quidditch due to earning herself about a hundred hours of detention with Snape. (He was going to kill her, she was almost positive.)

Trailing a distant fourth and fifth were the fact that Lilian had had to change her visit to the first week of August due to one of her more distant family members coming to visit in the last week before school, and the fact that Mary had not, despite repeated gentle urgings, managed to get even a tentative answer as to whether she might be able to visit Ginny Weasley at some point (she was still not speaking to the twins, but Ginny had been a victim as much as Mary had, and she couldn’t bring herself to hold the girl’s family against her. After all, Mary was related to _him_ ). Sixth was probably the institution of Sunday tea with the girls who properly ought to have been her cohort growing up.

After two weeks back at the Urquharts’, Catherine had declared that Mary was now well-trained enough to visit the other girls in her cohort as they hosted their own tea parties, not unlike the ones Catherine still attended on occasion with her own friends from Hogwarts. On the one hand, this was a triumph of sorts, because it meant she was catching up to where she ought to have been all along. On the other hand it was terrifying, because she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t embarrass herself (and by extension Catherine) in front of Daphne Greengrass or Susan Bones.

In practice, it was far more tedious than triumphant _or_ terrifying, and a much larger affair than she had expected. The last Sunday in July found her travelling by floo to Abbott House to join Hannah and Janine, her hostesses, along with Daphne Greengrass, Morag MacDougal, Megan Jones, Susan Bones, Lavender Brown, and the Patil twins from her own year; Artie Seran, a now-second-year Slytherin; a few girls she thought might now be fourth-years; and nearly a dozen eleven and twelve-year-olds, whose names she did not know.

The girls were ushered into a ballroom that had been transformed into a sort of enormous parlor, with eight tables, each with four seats. How the seating arrangements had been determined was entirely mysterious, but Mary found her name-card placed with Padma Patil, Anastacia Bagnold (a fourth-year Gryffindor), and Tabitha Diggory (who would be a first-year come September). Stacy took the lead in their conversation, and they made it through the afternoon without any major missteps on Mary’s part, though little Tabby did spill the cream at one point, and Padma kept shooting longing looks at Mandy Brocklehurst at the next table, as though sitting with people she hardly knew was some strange form of torture.

A number of adult women circled amongst the girls, supervising their interactions. Stacy named them discretely for Mary and Tabby, as older sisters and aunts of the girls in attendance. Their presence put rather a damper on the conversation, limiting the girls to idle chat about Hogwarts, their friends and siblings and plans for the remainder of the summer, and the latest gossip-mongering of Rita Skeeter, the Prophet’s most notorious ‘special correspondent.’ Apparently the Hob Goblins (a band Mary was certain she had never heard of before) were considering doing a reunion tour of the Continent, but Stubby Boardman, their former lead singer, was refusing for reasons unknown. Skeeter speculated that it was due to a curse the former singer sustained from an ex-lover at his final concert, which rendered him completely tone-deaf, though he and his former band-mates vehemently denied all such claims. (This, Skeeter said, was clearly proof – they wouldn’t deny it if it wasn’t true.)

Padma must have realized how bored Mary was, because as they were leaving, the Ravenclaw informed her that after they turned fifteen, they would be allowed to host their own, much more intimate and less-heavily-supervised parties, with their actual friends. This was not nearly as much of a relief as it might have been, considering it meant that Mary still had two whole summers of this sort of ‘party’ to get through. She was, for the first time, quite glad that she hadn’t grown up in the wizarding world, if only because it meant she had escaped the first two and a half summers of this tedious process of joining ‘her set.’

The next day, Mary saw an article in the paper saying that the Weasleys had gone to Egypt after winning some kind of lottery. Their picture was on the front page, all nine of them, waving happily in front of a pyramid. _So much for that visit_ , Mary thought, skimming the article and noticing that they would be gone all of August. Still, Ginny was smiling, with Ron and a man who had to be her oldest brother, Bill according to the article, on either side of her. The twins were laughing at a fully-recovered Percy, who hadn’t noticed a tarantula on his robes. Even Ron’s rat, perched on his shoulder, looked awake and alert, which Mary supposed passed for cheerful in rat terms. As long as they were moving on from the horror of last year, she supposed she wouldn’t be too angry that they had left the country without so much as a warning that the invitation to visit was no longer open. Then again, perhaps they had taken her last letter to mean that she had given up trying to get Catherine to agree to the visit anyway.

She sighed and passed the paper on to the older girl, whom she suspected had a bit of a crush on Bill Weasley when they were in school together. This suspicion was entirely based on boredom, and the fact that when they had run into the Weasleys at Diagon Alley the year before, Catherine had asked Percy to pass on her greetings to Bill, but not to Charlie, who was the next oldest Weasley. He did cut a rather daring figure, with his long hair and cursebreaker’s robes, far less all-encompassing and restricting than normal wizards’ robes. Mary wondered if he had had an earring in his Hogwarts’ days, too.

She made a mental note to send the Weasleys a letter of congratulations before heading off to her dancing lesson, considering again what she ought to meditate on for the Lammas ritual.

###  Monday, 26 July 1993 – Thursday, 29 July 1993

#### Azkaban Prison

##### Sirius Black

Sirius Black had no idea how long he had been in Azkaban. He didn’t know what day it was, or even the year. Most days, he would have been hard-pressed to tell you his own name or the last time he ate or showered (neither was a priority, when in the company of dementors). He could have told you two things: First that he was innocent, and not mad, and second, that it was much better to be Padfoot than Sirius, because if Padfoot was a Bad Dog, Sirius was the worst scum on the face of the planet. But that might just have been the dementors talking. He spent most of his days curled up in dog form, knowing that he was a Bad Dog, and that he deserved his punishment, whining softly to himself as he tried to sleep, ignoring the cries of the madmen all around him.

Sometimes people would come into the prison. Those were the worst days, because those days he had to be Sirius. They couldn’t know about Padfoot. _No one_ could know about Padfoot. If they did, they would take him away, and then Sirius would always have to be Sirius, and being Sirius was the worst. So when he felt the faint retreat of the dementors’ cold, driven away only by the light of a Patronus charm, he forced himself to become Sirius again, pulling himself into a tiny ball, hoping (or perhaps wishing, because there was no hope in Azkaban) that the human’s visit would end soon, and he could be Padfoot again, and sleep and mourn and eventually die.

As the person – whoever it was – moved closer to his cell, he wondered why they had come. You had to be mad to come to this place. Cissy came, sometimes, to see Bella, or she used to, before Bella stopped talking like all the others. His evil cousin used to be the only half-sane voice in the eternal night, though she would never speak to him, Blood-Traitor and all. And Snape, too, the sadistic, nightmarish, Corpse Munching bat, but he only ever came to make Sirius feel worse, never about what he had done to Snape and Moony, but about Lily and Prongs and the little, innocent Fawn, and rub it in that she was in his hands now, at Hogwarts, a _Slytherin_ , and that Sirius had missed her entire childhood, rotting away for a crime he didn’t commit. Sirius might have thought him a nightmare, if not for the patronus. Even that was a painful mockery – a doe, like Lily’s. There were other visitors, sometimes, but never on his floor.

Sometimes the Aurors would come in for an inspection. The new minister of Magic had come, too, when he took over. He’d looked ill and weak after only an hour in the prison, with four Aurors’ patroni keeping the dementors away. Sirius had sneered at him, silently, through the bars, and the weak, pudgy man had flinched away. He tried to remember how often Ministers inspected Azkaban, and reckon the odds that it was an inspector, and not Snape. He failed miserably, but it didn’t matter, because before he realized it, they were upon him. He had to pull himself together. Even if he did hate every powers-bedamned one of them, he was a Black, and he was innocent, and he would not cower in a corner like some pathetic madman, no matter how much he wanted to.

“Prisoner Gebo-Algiz Three-Nine-Zero: Black, Sirius, Minister,” a secretary-looking wizard announced, reading off a scroll and trying not to look at the men and monsters all around him. “Delivered to Azkaban in November of 1981 on the orders of Bartemius Crouch, approximately eleven years, nine months contained in highest security. Got to be mad as a hatter by now.”

“I’ll thank you to keep your opinions on my sanity to yourself,” Sirius growled in his haughtiest tone, and winced at the gravelly sound that was his own voice. He hadn’t used it for years, and clearly it had suffered.

“Merlin’s beard!” the minister, a pudgy man with a lime-green bowler hat, exclaimed. “He talked!”

“Merlin’s beard!” Sirius mimicked him, “He heard me!”

“Right, health – better than expected. I’ll make a note to increase the presence of the guards,” said the secretary, who was quickly beating out Snivellus for the position of ‘worst person ever’ in Sirius’ books.

“Now that’s just not fair!” Sirius pushed up his left sleeve and pressed his bare arm against the bars. “I’m not a Death Eater! You could at least give me a trial, seeing as how I’m doing ‘better than expected.’”

“Shut up, Black,” one of the Aurors snapped. “No one’s going to listen to a traitor like you.”

“Did he really not get a trial?” the Minister asked.

“I didn’t!” Sirius insisted, but another Auror spoke over him.

“Of course he did. Even Crouch wouldn’t have let a Black sit in here for ten years without a trial.”

“Obviously he was just mad to begin with – he fooled us all,” the first Auror said.

“Yeah, old Moody was never the same after…” the second agreed.

Sirius slumped. Of course the Aurors wouldn’t believe him. They had to believe that they were serving the light, and the light didn’t just throw innocent men to the dementors. And of course the Minister would believe the Aurors over a condemned murderer. Hell, he wasn’t sure even he would have believed himself, if he were an Auror still.

“Well, if I can’t have a trial, are you finished with your paper?” he asked, in a hopeless bid to keep the minister and his guards around and the dementors away for as long as possible.

“Good Lord, why?”

“I’ve missed doing the crossword something fierce,” Sirius drawled sarcastically. It had been over a decade since Sirius had had word (honest, non-Snivellus-tainted word) of the outside world. What did he think?

“Come on, Minister,” the flunky interrupted. “We’ve just got to get through half a dozen more, and then we can get off this gods-forsaken rock.”

“Yes, yes, let’s go,” the portly man replied, but he did hand over the Prophet, with a look akin to pity on his face.

Sirius was astonished. He hadn’t expected that to work at all. But as it had, and he couldn’t go back to being Padfoot at least until they left this level, he turned to the newspaper in fascination, running his fingers across the print over and over, hardly daring to believe it was real.

Monday, 26 July 1993.

_1993_.

It was true, then. Mary, Jamie’s little Fawn, would be at Hogwarts already, or rather, going back soon. He wondered where she was now. Not with him, and he’d heard that Bella was in here for torturing Alice into madness, so not with her, either. Petunia, maybe? They didn’t have many friends or family left, by the end. He hoped she was being looked after, wherever she was, even as he fell ravenously on the printed words.

It had been so long since he had read anything, and this was even good news – Arthur Weasley – he remembered Arthur and Molly and their little boys – had won a pile of galleons. The picture of his family – Lords of Light there were a lot of Weasleys, now – was the happiest thing he had seen at least since James went into hiding.

And then he looked closer, at the rat on the boy’s shoulder, and he froze.

The dementors weren’t even back yet, but he saw it all happening again, as though he were there: Chasing down that _traitor_ , cornering him, waiting for an explanation that would never come; watching him incredulously as the incompetent idiot blew up the street, watching him shrink, as he had so many times before, into the rat, into _Wormtail_.

Into the rat, staring smugly at him from the picture, from that boy’s shoulder.

And he remembered:

Sirius Black was innocent.

Peter Pettigrew was the traitor.

Peter Pettigrew, _Wormtail_ , was still free, and living, it seemed, at Hogwarts.

With the Fawn.

Pettigrew could get to his goddaughter at any time.

That was unacceptable.

She wasn’t safe.

She had to be protected at all costs.

He had to get out of here.

The dementors came back, but he hardly noticed, so focused was he on the goal, the unfulfilled duty. He felt guilt, yes, for failing her all these years, but it wasn’t too late. The Traitor was in Egypt, and the Fawn was not. All he had to do was escape from Azkaban, get to Hogwarts, and kill him when he came back, and then she would be safe.

For the first time in ten years, Sirius Black passed a night in Azkaban in his own form. He had to watch. He had to wait. He had to pay attention to times and patterns and find a way to get out of here. _He_ had to do this, not Padfoot, because all Padfoot knew was that he was a Bad Dog and deserved to die, neglected in a corner of this nightmare hell. Padfoot would never leave. But Sirius had a job to do.

Sirius would leave.

He slept and woke and slept again, watching the dementors as they moved around the prison, marking the floor where the sun hit when the meals came, eating those meals, because, revolting as they were, he would need all his strength to escape.

Finally, when he thought he could not learn anything more from his cage, he transformed into the dog and slipped past the confused dementor that came to deliver yet another bowl of bland porridge laced with disgusting nutrient potions. He wriggled through the bars of the portcullis, found the landing-site for the ministry’s supply boats, and began to swim, making for the nearest lighthouse.

For the first time in a very long time, Sirius knew he was doing the right thing.


	4. Trouble in Paradise

## Saturday, 31 July 1993, Morning

#### Urquhart Mansion

The day of Mary’s thirteenth birthday dawned clear and bright. It was a Saturday, so she could lounge around with Catherine in the morning, practicing her French, and then go flying in the afternoon. Catherine had promised that there would be a cake for her after dinner, and there was a small stack of gifts waiting for her at the end of her bed when she woke up. For about an hour, as she showered and dressed in her favorite robes, anticipating the birthday and Lammas rituals to come, she was certain it was going to be a perfect day.

Things started to go downhill when she reached the letter Lilian sent with her gift (a little bracelet with a silver snake charm, which Lilian insisted was going to be the next big thing in Slytherin). It seemed that instead of coming to visit on Monday, the bold Slytherin would be accompanying her father and sister to Spain. Some idiot (according to Lilian) had summoned a Skriker, which was a kind of demonic dog-creature, and flubbed the circle. It had killed him before taking off across the countryside. The Spanish Aurors – los Guardadores – sent an urgent request to the British Aurors, because out of all the European magical communities, Britain had the most experience with dealing with Spectral Hounds. The Aurors had contacted Tim Moon because the Moons were the foremost specialists on summoning, training, and controlling all kinds of Black Dogs, including the demonic ones. The girls were allowed to go and observe the hunt because their father felt that it was time they expanded their training to dealing with the infernal breeds, rather than the relatively harmless tangible and mundane dogs they were already familiar with. All this Mary gathered from reading between the lines of the hastily-scribbled letter. It ended with “I’ve got to go, Aer’s done packing. Happy birthday, I’ll write when we’re back!”

Even Hermione’s reminder (sent along with a French novel, _Le Petit Prince_ , and an admonishment to practice the language more) that the Grangers would be back from France by Wednesday, and that they would see her soon, at the Muggleborn Shopping Excursion on the fourteenth (Professor McGonagall had agreed to allow them to attend without much objection, either because it would make her job easier, or because she was trying to make amends to Emma for failing to notify her of the Basilisk situation) did not entirely make up for the loss of Lilian’s visit.

On the other hand the Weasley twins’ gift, a basket of cantrips – little enchanted slips of paper and twigs that released their magic to amusing effect when they were broken or torn – did make her smile.

She was of two minds about accepting the present. On the one hand, it might have been their way of trying to apologize. On the other, it wasn’t very explicit, and even if it was an apology, she wasn’t ready to forgive them. She had been ignoring them for months, much as she had Hagrid when she decided not to be his friend anymore, but unlike the dangerously stupid giant, the red-headed boys didn’t seem to be taking the hint. They were still acting like they were friends, sending her the occasional letter, even though she only ever replied to Ginny, and now a birthday gift as well.

The boys had _outright_ apologized for taking off to Egypt with no notice. Their explanation was that their mother had monopolized the family owl (a ragged, decrepit mop of feathers called Errol) until the day they left, and then they decided it might as well be a surprise. At least that solved the mystery of why Ginny hadn’t told her they were leaving. The younger girl had included a gift as well – a blue-green ring carved in the shape of a snake that she claimed to have found in an ancient tomb, and Bill assured her was no longer cursed.

Eventually Mary decided that just because she was angry at them didn’t mean she couldn’t still take whatever the twins were trying to bribe her with, and still refuse to speak to them. She found a cantrip that turned her hair Weasley-red, and decided to use it right before breakfast, just to see Catherine’s scandalized look.

Remus had sent her a Gulbrathian-enchanted candle, which could only be put out by the person who lit it, along with a short note wishing her a happy thirteenth birthday.

An anonymous someone (though she was certain it was Snape) sent her a new potions knife, much finer than the one she had bought for class. The blade was tiny, like a scalpel, but the note said it was edged with goblin-forged electrum and enchanted to be ever-sharp, which would make it ideal for dealing with some of the more delicate magiflora and magical creature ingredients. This did not help with the conundrum of how to deal with Snape in the least, but thankfully the lack of a signature suggested that she needn’t attempt to write a thank-you note.

Good spirits more or less restored (aside from the ever-present Snape-related confusion), Mary changed her hair color and made her way to breakfast. Mr. Stephen did a double-take and dropped his fork when she walked into the dining room, while everyone else just laughed. He explained that he had been at Hogwarts with Lily Evans (though several years behind) and even though the Weasley hair wasn’t quite the same shade of red, it was close enough that the resemblance was shocking. Aunt Minnie’s reaction, when she arrived at the end of the meal, was a bit more extreme. Mary had whisked her hair up into a ponytail and forgotten about it, until she was crushed into a hug by the normally-severe woman, who explained, tears in her eyes, that “you look just like your mother, you know.”

They had been planning to do the birthday ritual right after breakfast, before retiring to mediate on and discuss their expectations for the coming year, but that plan was derailed by the professor, who had terrible news.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

“Have any of you seen the Prophet this mornin’?” Professor McGonagall asked, her Scots accent far more pronounced than usual.

There was a murmur of negative responses from the Urquharts. It had been overlooked in the excitement over Mary’s hair and plans for the holiday.

“Here,” she said, brandishing her copy at Lord Urquhart. “It’s ‘orrible!”

The front page was covered by a silent photo of a man, his hair and beard tangled, staring resentfully at them all as Lord Urquhart turned to the article on the next page. His face was emaciated and sunken, his eyes shadowed and dull. The only movement was the occasional blink.

“I canna _believe_ they didna’ have the presence of mind t’ give us some sort’ve warnin’, the bleeding _imbeciles_!”

“Minerva!” Madam Urquhart snapped, “Get ahold of yourself, girl! What, by Merlin’s beard, has happened?”

It was Lord Urquhart who answered, the paper falling to the table as he reported in a shocked tone, “Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban!”

“WHAT?!” Mary’s appalled exclamation was drowned out by the simultaneous eruption of sound from everyone else at the table. Even the children were demanding to know who Sirius Black was, and Bryce started crying at the noise. The adults, in contrast, were vehemently denying that it was possible to escape from Azkaban. “But what about the dementors?” Ms. Nanette asked, over and over.

“SHUT UP!” Lord Urquhart shouted, and as the din slowly quieted, he began to read.

“The Ministry saw fit to inform the Prophet this morning of the escape of the notorious mass-murderer Sirius Black from Azkaban prison, late in the evening of Thursday the 29th or in the early hours of Friday the 30th. Black, former Auror and disgraced Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House, claimed by Severus Snape, former Death Eater, to have been the right hand of He Who Must Not Be Named, was remanded to Azkaban in November of 1981, just days after the fall of You Know Who. For more on the Snape Scandal of 1981, see page three.

“Black was captured at the scene of his last crime, a street blown to bits, with twelve muggles killed as collateral damage. The target of this devastating curse is said to have been Peter Pettigrew, Order of Merlin First Class, who once counted Black among his friends. The remains of Mr. Pettigrew were never recovered. He was identified by a finger found at the scene and pre-obliviation muggle witness reports.

“Mr. Pettigrew reportedly called out immediately before his death, accusing Black of betraying the Potter family to He Who Must Not Be Named, resulting in the deaths of Lord James Potter and his young wife Lily, formerly Evans. They were survived, of course, by their daughter Mary Potter, the Girl Who Lived. For more on Mary Potter, see pages three and four. When Aurors arrived on the scene, Black was reportedly laughing and muttering to himself, taking full credit for his crimes.

“When questioned regarding how the escape occurred and why the guards could not be more specific as to the timing of Black’s disappearance, despite ranking as one of the most heavily guarded prisoners on the island, a high-ranking ministry official, who has requested anonymity, said, ‘Well, it’s not exactly like they have eyes, do they? He disappeared from his cell between dinner on Thursday and breakfast Friday. Now get lost, we’ve got an investigation to get under way!’ For a discussion of the Auror Office’s response see page five.

 “As our readers are undoubtedly aware, the only prison in Magical Britain is Azkaban. It has been used for that purpose since 1843, and in that time there have been zero confirmed escapes. Despite this, there is legal provision for escapees: According to a 1957 ministry decree, any wizard who escapes imprisonment in Azkaban shall be executed by means of the Killing Curse or the Dementors’ Kiss immediately upon capture, having proven himself dangerous and unable to be held, even by our highest security efforts. See Editorials for debate on humane conditions for prisoners.

“The dementors, which guard the island and the prisoners, are reported to be incensed. Rumor in the ministry has it that the Wizengamot will vote this evening in an emergency session regarding whether this crisis will be considered a breach of National Security and whether it therefore will result in the activation of Emergency Powers on the part of the Minister. For further discussion of Minister Fudge and relevant Ministry policies, see page six.

“The investigators do not believe that Black has a wand at this time, but we remind our readers not to engage should they come into contact with him. There is no way to guarantee that he has not acquired a wand, and anyone who can escape an island full of dementors must be considered highly dangerous even without one. Likewise the fact that he has managed to escape suggests that he has some control of his faculties, even after prolonged exposure, possibly because, as his reaction on capture indicates, he was already quite mad before he was taken into custody. Furthermore, Black was once an Auror, and would therefore have had some knowledge of muggle combat which he may use in the absence of a wand.

“As of press time, there have been no reported sightings, but a floo-line has been designated by the Auror office to take tips, and all leads will be investigated. If you spot him, contact the Auror Office or the DMLE at once.

“And then the rest of the page is about his victims, Pettigrew and the Potters. They’ve even scraped up a horrific bit on how Pettigrew, Potter, and Black were all friends at school, along with a boy called Lupin, and are calling on the public to ask ‘Where is Lupin now?’ as though he could have had anything to do with it.” Lord Urquhart passed the paper to his mother with a huff.

Mary, who had been sitting, frozen, shocked still, since the first line of the article, stood robotically and placed her napkin on her plate. “Excuse me,” she announced, and turned to go without waiting for a response. This was undoubtedly rude, but she couldn’t stay another moment. She just couldn’t.

She ignored the indistinct babble of concerned voices behind her as she fled the house, brushing past Aunt Minnie, running straight to the broom shed and from there, to her favorite spot on the Mansion grounds – a tiny, open platform where two peaks of the roof came together. She had discovered it not two weeks before, and it appeared to have no easy access from the inside of the house. It had a lovely view of the nearby forest, and you couldn’t see it at all from anywhere on the ground. Since William had begun to tag along whenever he spotted her flying in the gardens, she had started coming here to be alone.

She set her broom aside carefully, using a weak Sticking Charm to make sure it wouldn’t slide off the roof. The last thing she needed today was to get trapped up here, where no one knew where she was. And then she curled herself into a ball, hugging her knees tightly to her chest, resting her forehead on them. She didn’t know why it was so awful. She had always known, almost since the first day she found out about magic, that Sirius Black was a horrible traitor who had betrayed her parents and led to their deaths. Even Remus, who admitted to missing the boy Black once was, would hardly speak of him.

She had asked Remus about Azkaban in one of their letters, and she had thought that Black was getting what he deserved, locked up with the dementors, unable, or so Remus said, to think even a single happy thought, trapped in all his worst memories. Dementors, she had decided after that letter, sounded like the stuff of nightmares. She hoped she would never have to meet one.

Maybe just it was worse now because she knew what a godfather was supposed to do. He should have loved her like his own daughter! Catherine said that being a godparent was almost as big a commitment as getting married. He never should have done it, if he could so-easily turn on his _compatres_ , his former friends. Hadn’t she been thinking just a week ago, that it was good he was in Azkaban? The last thing she wanted in her life was a father-figure who had betrayed her before she even knew him. It was worse than finding out that _he_ was her grandfather – at least _that_ was biological and unavoidable. Black had volunteered, had been _chosen_ as her godfather, and had still betrayed that bond.

Hot tears dripped down her face as she blamed her parents for choosing him. Why hadn’t they known? How could they have trusted him with their lives? With her life? The stupid prophecy was no excuse. If nothing else, it should have meant they were even more cautious.

She immediately felt guilty for her own traitorous thoughts. She hardly ever thought of her parents, and it was, she felt, rather poor form to do so, only to blame them for what had to have been an honest mistake. They wouldn’t have put all their lives in the hands of anyone they didn’t trust absolutely. They wouldn’t have made him her godfather, either. He must have fooled them both. He must have fooled _everyone_.

But that didn’t make it better! She was just so _angry_! At the madman, escaped and on the run, with the Mad Power only knew what goals in mind. At her parents, for falling for his tricks. At whoever was in charge of the investigation, for not sending someone to tell her in person – she shouldn’t have had to find out like this, from the morning paper, on her birthday, when it seemed nothing was going right. At herself, because even though it wasn’t really their fault, she couldn’t help wishing that her parents had trusted Remus instead of Black. He had explained in one of his letters that they had reasons to mistrust him – that he had been undercover and acting suspiciously at the end of the war – but she still wished that they had somehow been able to see through his act, and had trusted him anyway. He was clearly the better man.

She hardly noticed the wind whipping around her as her magic lashed the air in frustration.

She wished that there was something she could do. She knew that Black deserved to die for his treachery, and suspected that if she were a few years older, pureblood laws would have some recourse for her to declare him an enemy of her family or the like, and hunt him down herself. Not that she would stand a chance, really, against the sort of spells that could blow up a whole _street_ , but it was the principle of the thing. He had taken so much from her, and she had every right to take something from him in return.

Then again, she had no idea where he was, and she didn’t know if she could actually kill him if she did find him. If the basilisk were still alive (and willing to listen to her) she might have sent it after the man. But she supposed the absolute best she could possibly do, seeing as she was barely thirteen years old and had no secret weapons at her disposal, would be to track the man down and alert the Ministry.

There was no hope of that happening, either. She wouldn’t know where to start, and Aunt Minnie and Catherine were hardly about to let her run off to try to track down a mass murderer, anyway.

She wanted to scream. She was sure there had been times in her life when she had felt helpless before – more helpless than this. Certainly being kidnapped by the Weasleys and then trapped in the Chamber was worse. Getting involved in the duel between Snape and Quirrellmort, and then nearly being possessed was worse. Even being thrown into her cupboard, or denied food for days with the Dursleys, or being held down by Piers as Dudley clumsily whaled on her might have been worse. But then, in all of those cases, she had been overwhelmed. None of those things were anything like being free and able to act, and yet entirely incapable of doing something you _knew_ needed to be done.

She wanted to lash out with her magic. She wanted to break things. She wanted to fly as high as her broom could take her, and dive straight back to earth, defying gravity and death and any sort of reasonable fear for her own safety.

She did none of those things, because a tentative voice spoke from behind her: “Miss Mary?”

She sniffled. Great. Now she was going to have to find another hideout, too. “What is it, William?”

The little boy tried to lay his broom next to Mary’s but without a sticking spell, it immediately rolled to a lower tier of the roof, and then off the side of the building. “Oops,” he said, taking a seat next to her and clinging to her arm. He was clearly a bit frightened to be up so high without a broom to hand.

She didn’t have the heart to make him let go, but she did repeat herself rather sharply. “What _is_ it, William?”

“The aunties are lookin’ for you,” he said simply. “Aunt Minnie said it’s your birthday, and Aunt Cathy said she hoped you were okay.”

“’m fine,” she mumbled, regretting that she couldn’t send him back alone, since they only had the one broom, now.

“You’re sad,” he said bluntly. She snorted. At this rate, he was bound to be a Hufflepuff, or maybe a Gryffindor, with his bluntness. “Who’s Sirius Black?”

“He’s my godfather,” she said, trying not to sniffle. “And he’s a very bad man.”

“And he’s escaped from prison?”

Mary nodded.

“Guess that’s a pretty bad birthday present, huh?” the boy said. Mary couldn’t help but smile a little at the understatement.

“Yeah, you could say that. How’d you find me, anyway?”

“You always come here when you don’t wanna fly with me,” William said with a shrug.

Mary groaned. She had thought she was being sneaky. The boy just gave her a clever grin. “So why’d you come up here, if you knew I wanted to be alone?”

“’Cos it’s your birthday,” he said, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. “And the aunties were worried about you. And because mum told me to go do something useful, instead of hanging around asking questions.”

“So you thought you’d come fetch me and save them the worry, is that it?” Mary sighed.

William nodded happily. “And Aunt Minnie said that when you came back, we could do your birthday ritual!”

“I didn’t think I’d ever say this, but I don’t know if I’m really in the mood, William,” she protested, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

“Don’t be daft,” the boy responded at once, mimicking his sister’s favorite phrase. “You don’t need to be in any pacific mood. Y’ just have to sit there, and the magic and the grown-ups will do everything.”

“Specific,” Mary corrected idly. “All right then, let’s go.” She stood, and hauled the little boy to his feet as well, helping him mount the broom in front of her. It was a bit trickier to balance with two of them on board, but she fancied she was a good enough flier to manage, anyway. She had gotten aloft with Hermione riding double their first year, and William was a much better flier than her Ravenclaw friend.

Sure enough, they did make it to the ground safely, where Ms. Primrose was waiting anxiously for her son to return, and Mr. Stephen and Mr. Conrad were telling her not to worry so much. After William was returned to his parents, Aunt Minnie and Catherine swept Mary off to talk privately. They reassured her that she could come talk to them at any time, and that they were there for her. It might have been more comforting if she had wanted someone to cry with. But she definitely preferred to do that in private. What she really wanted was a good place to practice blowing things up. Maybe things that were glamoured to look like Sirius Black’s face. That, she thought, might actually make her feel better.

She _knew_ that would be considered unbecoming behavior, though, so she nodded quietly, and asked to be excused from the pureblood tea party she knew was being hosted by the Brown family the following day. She truly didn’t know if she could sit through an entire afternoon with the society girls at the moment. Certainly not without losing her mind over something entirely inconsequential. Aunt Minnie had patted her hand reassuringly and said of course she didn’t have to go if she didn’t feel up to it, and Catherine volunteered to make her excuses for her.

###  Saturday, 31 July 1993, Afternoon/Early Evening

#### Urquhart Mansion

After that, apparently feeling that Mary had been consoled enough, or perhaps suspecting that the best way to deal with this latest traumatic revelation was simply to keep her busy, Catherine led her deep into the Mansion, to a room she had never entered before.

“This,” Catherine announced proudly, “is the Ritual Room.”

If she had not spent two years at Hogwarts already, Mary would have called the Ritual Room plain. As it was, she had enough experience now with magic to recognize its simplicity for age and to feel the strength of magic within it.

The stones of the walls were large and heavy, much like those in the dungeons at Hogwarts. They were hung with tapestries. The Urquhart family’s lineage tapestry was most prominent, spanning the wall directly across from the door, but she spotted the crests of Prince and Rowle, Fawley, Flint, and Mortis as well: birth houses of the Urquhart ladies. Even House McGonagall had a crest, for all Mary knew Aunt Minnie and Elphinstone Urquhart had only been married for a couple of years, and never had children. The stones almost glowed with strength and solidity and _history_.

The ceiling was vaulted, rather like a cathedral, but not so very high. If it had been, Mary thought this would have been a terrible, alien space, built on the scale of a god, like the Chamber of Secrets. As it was, it was… homey. Earthy. Human. The lights suspended between the arches were soft and warm.

The floor was packed dirt, with a platform at the center of it which filled nearly the entire room – smooth, dark wood, like a round table, only a foot high. Mary could see no joints – it was as though it had just grown that way, or perhaps, she thought, noting the grain, as though someone had felled an enormous tree, two dozen feet across, and taken a slice of it to shape for their purpose. There was a sense of raw, living power here that she had never felt anywhere else.

She entered the room cautiously, the leftover magic of a thousand rituals pressing against her on all sides, emanating from the walls and the wooden circle, quite unlike the magic called and directed at the holidays. It was similar in a way to the magic that had flooded the Chamber when the Basilisk died, but not nearly as wild or dangerous-feeling. It buoyed her in a way she had never expected, the air positively fizzing around her. She wondered if this was what William had meant when he said that the magic would do the rest.

Catherine urged her to take off her shoes, then led her to the center of the platform and bid her to sit.

“This is the true heart of the Urquhart family,” she explained, her voice soft and reverent. “For six-hundred years and more, we have brought our children before magic in this room. We marry here. We mourn here. This room has seen darkness and light, joy and sorrow, always in balance. The Powers have graced us with their presence in this room. For our family, it is a magic eternal and timeless, grown from the worship of ages. It will last, they say, until the last true Urquhart is gone, and then, like all magic, fade away to reappear in another form.

“To use this space, to be welcomed into it, is a gift all its own, and as such must be repaid. We make no offerings to the powers today, or to magic itself, but to history, tradition, and continuity.”

“What do we need to do?” Mary whispered, her voice sounding too-loud, even so, in the sacred space.

Catherine grinned. “We’re going to sand the altar.”

“We’re _what_?”

“We’re showing our respect by caring for the space and taking care of it properly. The altar must be purified before and after every ritual, and we do that by sanding it. And we do it by hand. This isn’t the sort of thing you can cheat at with an _Elsen_ charm. It’s an act of respect and… sacrifice. It should be taken seriously.”

“Alright. I just… wasn’t expecting that,” Mary said, slightly defensive. She didn’t mind, honestly. She understood, on a deeply fundamental level, that it was important to show that she respected the power of this magic, and if that was how, then that was what she would do.

Catherine smiled again, and left the platform ( _the_ _altar_ , Mary corrected herself), slipping through a door half-hidden by the Mortis tapestry. She returned moments later with what seemed to be two blocks of actual _sandstone_ , carved on one side with handles.

“Like this,” she said, demonstrating by moving one of the blocks in slow circles across the wooden surface, raising faint dust in its wake. “Start here, and move clockwise around the circle, working your way in. I’ll start on the other side and we’ll spiral around each other and meet in the middle.” The older girl suited word to deed, still talking. “When it’s done, we wash the dust away, and then take a purification bath. Then we can come back and mark out the circle.”

“Who all is going to be there? For the ritual, I mean.” Mary asked, more than a little curious, taking over with her own sanding-block. It was lighter than she expected, and she wondered if it hadn’t been enchanted, and whether that didn’t count as cheating, too.

“Well, Aunt Minnie, of course, and she figured that since we’d only have eleven if we included the gents, we’d best keep it to seven, so it will be all the ladies: Madam Morgana, Lady Dahlia, Mother, and then Prim, Nan, and me.”

Mary nodded, then realized that Catherine probably wasn’t looking at her. “Okay.”

“The gents and the kiddies will watch, of course, and I think Uncle Aeron and Aunt Percy might be here by then, and the cousins. Aunt Cleo and Uncle Bernie will likely be along around dinner, so they’ll probably miss it.”

“Who are they?” Mary knew about Aeron and Persephone Urquhart – they were on the Urquhart family tree. But she didn’t recall a Cleo or a Bernie.

“The Millers. Cleo is father’s sister, five years younger than him. There was a bit of a scandal, oh, probably about twenty years ago, now. She refused the marriage her grandfather arranged for her, and got herself disinherited over it. Not disowned, mind, but it was enough that she ran off and refused to speak to the family until he passed away and grandfather took over as Lord Urquhart. He re-inherited her, even though she had married a muggleborn wizard, Bernard Miller, in the meanwhile. He told Madam Morgana to bugger off, I guess, because Cleo’s kids are nowhere near the line of succession, and he didn’t want his only daughter to be estranged. But since Bernie’s a muggleborn, they don’t have any family traditions of their own, so they come back here, even though they’re not part of the Urquhart clan by name and it’s always hideously awkward with Madam Morgana. Father stood as _compater_ for Leon and Chelsea, though, so she can’t complain about them, at least. They have as much right to be there as anyone.”

Mary studiously ignored the reminder about godfatherhood. “Leon and Chelsea? Would I know them from Hogwarts?” This was really much harder than Mary had thought at first. She was starting to work up a sweat.

“Probably not. Leon’s just finished his OWLs, and he’s a Gryffindor. Chelsea’s a year ahead of you in Hufflepuff.”

“Was she at that tea party last week?”

“No, she wouldn’t have been. Miller’s only a second-generation family. The Abbotts might have invited some half-bloods, but they’d be from established families, plus the purebloods from light and neutral families, and even then, only the ones who have a certain degree of class. I’m sure, for instance, that they didn’t invite Ginevra Weasley, or, oh what is her name? Sage-Willow’s daughter. Something Lovegood?”

Mary had been about to ask why it should matter if Chelsea’s father was muggleborn, since the Urquharts were as established as anyone, but the question distracted her. “Luna? Why wouldn’t she be invited?”

“Yes! I knew it started with an ‘L’. Luna Lovegood. Well, all the Lovegoods are considered odd company, anyway, but her mum, Pandora Sage-Willow, was an Irish druid. Her blood’s probably as pure as mine, but druids aren’t well-thought of in most circles. They have different practices, different naming conventions, and just an odd outlook on life in general. I wouldn’t imagine she was raised as the tea party sort, even before the incident.”

Mary ignored the allusion to Pandora Lovegood’s death, focusing on the description of Luna as ‘not the tea party sort.’ That might be a bit of an understatement. “No, she wasn’t there, nor Ginevra. Either one of them would have been better company than the girls I was seated with, though.”

It appeared that Catherine had nothing to say to that. They sanded in silence for a few minutes before Mary asked, “What are you meditating on, today?” her earlier question forgotten.

She had almost forgotten her preoccupation with the upcoming Lammas ritual in the excitement over Black’s escape, but she still didn’t know what ‘decision’ she should be hoping to see.

“The same thing as last year, and the year before that,” Catherine said quietly. “Whether it’s time to move on, go to Italy, or start looking for a husband. I’m twenty-two, now, which isn’t exactly old-maid material, but many of my friends are settling down to start their families, or else they’re nearly done with masteries. I’ve enjoyed being here for the little ones, and I like to think I’m a good teacher, but it’s not my calling, and I want to do more with my life. Still, I’m not sure if it’s the right time.

“Last year… last year I had the impression that, well, if I stayed here, I would do more, in the end, than if I left. I would be… instrumental, you could say, in the way our society develops in the next few years. But there’s a much greater chance that I’ll die young. If I were to leave Britain, go to Italy or France or Spain for the next five years or so, I would have a much greater chance of living to a ripe old age, but it would be a quiet, unassuming, unfulfilling life. Not unlike my current dissatisfaction.”

“So you decided to stay?” Mary was astonished. Catherine had never struck her as being that daring, to risk _death_ for – what? Political power and influence?

“No. It’s one of those decisions where you have to keep deciding. I could still leave. But nothing has really changed since last year, so I don’t think the time has come, yet, when things get… riskier.”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

Catherine was silent for a long time, and when she spoke again, she sounded very close. Mary looked up to see that they were nearly done, surrounded on all sides by a sea of sawdust. “I don’t know,” the older girl said, catching her eye very seriously. “Dumbledore has always said the Dark Lord would return. It could be that. For all I know, it could be some idiot selling his soul to the Infernal Power and bringing a Greater Demon into our dimension. It could be someone finally breaks the Statute of Secrecy, and the muggles come hunt us down.” She appeared to think about that for a moment, then added, “Well, maybe not that last one – that probably wouldn’t be limited to Britain. All I really know is that I have a better chance of living if I leave, and a better chance of doing something important with my life if I stay.”

Mary shivered. She had been close to death two years in a row, now, and more than once. But she couldn’t imagine having to choose over and over again to go or stay like that. It must be nearly as bad as living under a prophecy for real. Fortunately, the altar was done, so she could change the subject without being too awkward about it. She stood up and cracked her back, admiring their handiwork. “What now?”

“ _Now_ we do the fun part,” the older girl said, apparently as willing to change the subject as Mary. She padded away across the platform, leaving footprints in the dust. Mary followed, curious, through the door behind the Mortis tapestry, and found herself in what amounted to a store-room. The girls returned their sanding blocks to a rack and Catherine turned on a tap, filling three large buckets. She took two, leaving the last for Mary, and led the way back to the floor.

“Ready?” she asked, eyes gleaming.

Mary nodded, and without further ado, the older girl threw her first bucket across the platform, washing the dust away.

Catherine led the way to a point nearly halfway around the circle and announced, “Your turn!”

Mary’s throw was somewhat less successful than the older girl’s, but it hardly mattered. Most of the dust was already gone, wiped away in the first flood. Catherine threw the last bucket from a third point, and, when she was satisfied that they had gotten all the dust, they returned the buckets to the store-room.

Catherine then opened another door, behind the Flint and Fawley tapestries, on the other side of the Ritual Room. This one was filled with individual bathtubs, and had racks of undyed robes and undergarments lining the walls. The older girl filled two tubs and fetched a stack of towels from a cupboard before ordering Mary to undress. The look on her face brooked no argument, so Mary, very reluctantly, disrobed, trying to keep herself covered as much as possible.

Catherine just rolled her eyes as she stripped off her own clothing. “I’ve seen it all before, Mary,” she said drily, and motioned for the girl to climb into the nearer bath. She didn’t comment on the scars from rituals and thestrals and unicorns which adorned Mary’s chest, for which the younger girl was grateful.

The water was very cold, and if it wasn’t enchanted itself, the tub must have been, because she could feel magic fizzing through it. It was very strange, and altogether uncomfortable, not even counting the awkwardness of being naked in front of an equally-nude Catherine.

“Head down. You need to get every bit of you submerged.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Mary grumbled, teeth chattering.

“Come on, the quicker you do it, the quicker it will be over.”

Mary glared, but pinched her nose and did as she was told. When she re-surfaced, Catherine was chanting in Latin, and there was a golden glow over the surface of the water. The tone of the chant changed as the older girl produced a dipper from somewhere and poured fresh water from a bucket Mary hadn’t noticed over her head. She repeated this three times, then helped Mary out of the bath.

“Can I get dressed now?” she asked, still shivering, even in the fluffy towel Catherine had given her.

“No. You can dry off, but you can’t get dressed until I’m done. It’s important that we both move through the cleansing ritual together.”

Mary nodded, resigned, and wrung as much water as possible from her hair before setting the towel aside.

“Right, then. All you have to do is pour the dipper of water over my head when I nod at you,” she explained, climbing into her own tub, “and give me a hand when I’m getting out.”

“Okay.”

Catherine slid down, her hair floating on the water until she reached up to pull it under. She looked very peaceful there, her mouth moving as she silently whispered the spell. The golden glow appeared again, and after a few seconds longer, Catherine sat up, now chanting aloud. She nodded at Mary, who obediently poured the fresh water over her tutor, twice, and then thrice, and it was done, even more quickly than Mary’s bath.

They dressed in the undyed clothing lining the walls, and Mary followed Catherine across the Ritual Room again to gather chalk and candles. The older girl drew a septigram on the altar without hesitation, and set the candles in their proper places. It looked to Mary as though it was the perfect size for a circle of seven to sit between the points and hold hands, which was exactly what the ritual entailed. Finally, she led the way into yet another room, this one behind the Rowle tapestry, and bare, save for a mirror on one of the walls.

Catherine walked up to this and after demanding that it show her the Main Parlor, announced that they were ready. Mary heard Lady Urquhart’s voice calling that they would be right down, and the girls settled in to wait. Catherine knelt easily, as though she had done this a hundred times before (as she easily might have done). Mary fiddled restlessly with the ties of her too-large robe and tried to finger-comb her still-damp hair.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

Several endless minutes later, Lord Urquhart appeared at the door to escort the girls to the circle, all the other ladies already in place. Mary thought it was very unfair that they got to wear their normal clothes. She tried not to fidget in front of the family who had assembled themselves in a ring, lining the outer edge of the platform in silence.

The ritual itself was very short, she thought, in comparison to the amount of preparation they had put into it, and the time it would take to sand the altar again, after.

It was worth it, though.

It was similar to the ritual the Moons had used at school for Hermione and Lilian’s birthdays, though not the same.

Madam Urquhart led, her old voice strong and clear. “Who brings this child before magic this day?”

Mary, who had not been instructed to say or do anything in particular, stayed quiet as three answers were given.

“I, Catherine, born of the House of Urquhart, bring this child, my student, to meet the magic.”

“I, Minerva of the House of McGonagall, once of Urquhart, bring this child, my ward, to meet the magic.”

“I, Dahlia of the House of Urquhart, once of Flint, bring this child, my fosterling, to meet the magic.”

Madam Urquhart nodded to each of them in turn. “Who bears witness to the meeting this day?”

“I, Lilith of the House of Urquhart, once of Rowle, do bear witness to this rite of meeting.”

“I, Primrose of the House of Urquhart, once of McKinnon, do bear witness to this rite of meeting.”

“I, Nanette of the House of Urquhart, once of Auvis, do bear witness to this rite of meeting.”

Madam Urquhart nodded again, then fixed a gimlet stare on Mary. “Who is the child who is brought before us?”

It was clearly Mary’s turn to speak. “I am Mary Elizabeth,” she said, “Heir to the House of Potter. Ward of McGonagall and fosterling of Urquhart,” she added for good measure. She must have done well enough, because the old woman nodded her acceptance and moved on.

“I, Morgana of the House of Urquhart, once of Fawley, accept these claims!” she declared.

The magic already present in the chamber seemed to somehow banish itself, leeching away until Mary could hardly feel its electric tingle. The room was quiet for a short eternity, the only sound the breathing of the circle of watchers, and then…

“We call on magic, friend of our family, to join us in our circle,” Madam Urquhart declaimed. “We call upon magic, will its own, unbound by mortals, wild and free. Join us in our circle.”

When Aerin had said the words, they were an order, an expectation. When Madam Urquhart spoke them, it was as though she extended an invitation to an old friend.

“Join us in our circle,” the women echoed.

The candles between them flared to life, outside the circle of clasped hands, and the lines of the septigram began to glow as the sense of magic’s presence slowly restored itself from wherever it had hidden.

“We welcome the magic, friend of all witches. We welcome the magic, heart of the world. We welcome the magic to our circle.”

“We welcome the magic to our circle.”

The magic was active, now, brushing against Mary like a cat, twining between her fingers and playing with her hair. It tickled, and she struggled not to laugh as the center of the septigram filled with light.

Another breath and it was inside her. She blinked, and it was like seeing for the first time as she watched the currents of magic flowing through the room, within the witches in the circle, and the watchers outside of it, even within her own hands when she looked down. She felt her heart beat strongly, felt the magic in her blood. She closed her eyes and fell into the core of her magic, deep within her mind – opened them to see visions of light dancing all around her. A symbol hovered before her eyes. She reached out to touch it and knew that it stood for herself. It sank into her skin, flowing over her like water, before settling at the center of her chest, just below the spot where she knew the nautilus spiral still lingered.

All of this took place within the space of a breath, it seemed, because when she took notice of the world again, Madam Urquhart had only just resumed the ritual: “We call the magic to meet this child, proud heir of a dying house, reluctant heroine, favored by both fate and fortune, student, ward, fosterling, friend. We bring the child to meet the magic, strange and wondrous, the sum of the whole that is greater than its parts, being and non-being, mystery power. We offer nothing this day, and ask nothing in return – only to celebrate together, in harmony and accord, the bringing-together of magic and child.”

“We witness and celebrate,” the witches chorused.

The magic, still present in Mary from before, grew stronger, sinking deeper into her until she felt that every bone and muscle must be full of it, every cell bursting with joy and magic. She felt herself glowing, so saturated with power and magic that it was rolling off her in waves, and suddenly knew that it would stop only when she spoke. She held the words to herself as long as she could, enjoying the feeling of the connection with the world, but it quickly became overwhelming.

“I offer my friendship to magic!” she nearly shouted it, unwilling to let the feeling go, but unable to hold it a moment longer. It sounded a bit twee, she reflected, even as she said it, but it wasn’t untrue. She wanted the kind of relationship with magic that Madam Urquhart so clearly had.

“We witness and celebrate,” came the chorus again, but Mary wasn’t done. She’d simply had to catch her breath as the magic ebbed away.

“Mine to yours, and yours to mine, know and be known, henceforth…” She stretched her mind, the word she wanted just out of reach. “Familiar,” she finally decided. It still wasn’t right, but… close. She had the feeling the magic was laughing at her for missing something very obvious. _Easy for you_ , she thought at it. _You didn’t have to say the words!_

“We witness and celebrate.”

The magic continued to ebb, flowing out of her, and away, but Mary took the way it spiraled around her torso and arms as it went to be a sort of fond farewell. Familiar indeed.

“We thank the magic for joining us. We thank the magic for recognizing this child. Our circle thanks the magic.”

“Our circle thanks the magic!” the women echoed, Mary among them.

The magic departed fully, taking up its residence again in the walls and the floor. The lines of the septigram grew dim and became, once more, only chalk. The candles remained lit. Each of the witches in the circle picked one up and carried it carefully to a small table Mary hadn’t noticed before as the men and children who had watched congratulated her, and introduced her to the unfamiliar faces – Aunt Percy and Uncle Aeron, and the cousins Catherine had mentioned.

When the witches of the circle returned, the crowd thinned, until it was just Mary and Catherine and the sandstone blocks left. Mary suppressed a groan and picked hers up without complaint, following Catherine’s instructions to begin at the center this time, and work outward in a counterclockwise direction.

Before the birthday ritual, she had thought that she might use this time to ask the older girl what she ought to meditate on for the rest of the day. She had no idea how long they had been here, in this windowless chamber, but she suspected it would be nearly time to start the Lammas ritual when they finished.

Now, in the wake of the ceremony, she felt no inclination whatsoever to talk. What would come, would come, and she would deal with it as it did. Besides, between the physical exertion of sanding this accursed floor twice in a matter of hours, the magical excitement of the ritual, and the emotional trauma of Black’s escape, all she really wanted was to go take a nap. She had a sneaking suspicion that it was going to be a very long night.

The girls worked in silence until it was time to fetch the water, when Catherine informed Mary that it was her turn to throw two buckets. She did so, and was finally allowed to change back into her own (properly fitting) clothes. She made sure to change with her back turned to Catherine (who laughed at her and called her a prude), and managed to confirm that a new ritual tattoo had appeared on her skin, without alerting the older girl to that fact. It was a plain black ohm-sign over a bar, which she was almost certain was for Libra. It was about as wide across as the length of her thumb, located just where her ribcage split, beneath her barely-present breasts, and looked rather like someone had taken a paintbrush and calligraphed it onto her pale skin – plain, yes, and simple, but graceful, in its way. Mary just sighed and pulled on her robe, wondering what it meant. Hermione and Lilian certainly hadn’t mentioned any kind of symbols appearing during _their_ rituals.

“Come on, Mary,” Catherine called from the door. “It’s got to be nearly dinner, and I’m starving!”

Mary fell into her usual place, following Catherine from the Room. Its magic coiled, snake-like, around her fingers as she did, and she smiled. At least one thing had gone right today.

###  Saturday, 31 July – Sunday, 1 August 1993

#### Urquhart Mansion

It was, indeed, nearly time for dinner. There was, in fact, just enough time before dinner to have a quick shower – Mary was sweaty again after sanding the floor a second time, and there was sawdust in her hair.

Dinner was, as expected, a tense affair. Cleo and Bernie had been seated as far as possible from Madam Urquhart, but the old lady still managed to make cutting remarks which carried the length of the table. Mary did her best to ignore them, chatting with Leon and Chelsea about classes and professors, much as she would with any strange Hogwarts student. She felt that her part of the dinner conversation was going quite well until Chelsea suddenly burst out in apologies for the behavior of her House the previous year.

“I never thought you were the Heir of Slytherin! I just went along with the others, and now I feel so bad! You’re far too nice, and I can’t believe I let them convince me to shun you like that! I’m so sorry! Please say you’ll forgive me!”

Mary had stared at her in shock (along with most of the table) for nearly a minute before she managed to say, “There’s nothing to forgive, of course.”

Leon broke the tense silence with a snort of laughter and a, “Nice one, Chels’. Way to be a spaz.”

When the adults’ talk resumed, Mary had to fend off Laina’s questions about the Heir of Slytherin and the attacks at the school, while Chelsea buried her very red face in her hands and Leon busied himself talking to their cousin Frances, who was seated on his other side.

“I don’t understand!” Laina complained. “Why did they think you were the Heir of Slytherin in the first place?”

Mary sighed. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to answer that question or not, and quite frankly, she was tired of talking about it, anyway. “Because I am _an_ heir of Slytherin. I can speak Parseltongue. But I wasn’t the person calling himself _the_ Heir and going around petrifying people.”

“Who was?”

That, Mary was almost certain she wasn’t supposed to tell people, especially impressionable seven-year-olds. “Ask Aunt Minnie. She’ll probably say when you’re older.”

Laina pouted at her, but quickly came up with another question. “What’s pars – pastle-tongue?”

“ _Parseltongue_ ,” Mary corrected, “is the language of snakes.” Anticipating the next question, she added, < _It sounds like this, and by the powers you are irritating. I wish there were a snake nearby so I could ask it to chase you away. >_

Laina’s eyes were very round, and Chelsea had made a funny little _eep_ sound and flinched away from her. “Oh, come off it, Miller,” she whispered, “It’s not like it’s a secret.”

“No, but it’s creepy! I don’t like snakes!” the Hufflepuff said, a bit angrily.

Mary bit back a laugh as Laina said, “I _do_. What did you say?”

“It sounds like this, and I wish there were a snake around, because it’s more impressive to hold a conversation,” Mary said innocently. “Oh, look, they’re bringing out the pudding!”

Dinner was allowed to run late that evening, the adults (those of whom were on speaking terms) lingering over cake, then coffee, then drinks. The assembled family finally trooped outside, to the old oak tree in the smallest courtyard, on the west side of the Mansion, just after ten. They arranged themselves with their backs to its trunk. With twenty-two people in attendance, they shouldn’t all have been able to lean against it at once, even shoulder to shoulder, but there must have been some kind of space-bending enchantments in effect, because they all found a place easily. Mary was between Miss Anna and Miss Elsie when they settled down, rather than between Laina and Chelsea, for which she was quite grateful.

As the moon rose above the horizon, Lord Urquhart took a sip from a steaming goblet and passed it to the next person in the circle. It passed Mary three times before it was empty. It tasted like rainwater and honeysuckle. The steam rolling off it smelled like baked cherries, though the liquid itself was cold. She could honestly say it was the best-tasting potion she had ever had. A voice to her left began to speak – a woman, either Mrs. Miller or Ms. Persephone.

“We gather beneath the leaves of our heart-tree,” she said, “strong and steady, family like the oak. We gather in darkness, holding light in our souls, to honor the Powers of Order and Binding, acknowledging and embracing the ties of our commitments and our duties, to family and friends, to ourselves, and to our people and the wider world. We witness what we would have come to pass, and what warnings may be offered in this, our moment of decision.”

When Catherine had described the ceremony the year before, she said magic rose like a fog from the roots of the tree. Mary found that, while accurate, that description did not adequately capture the way in which it spread heavily through her shoulders, leaning against the trunk, pulling her back, and down to the earth, or how it was strongest there, where the roots were thickest, but concentrated in thick bands, diffusing slowly, while it was like a mist around her ankles, sticking straight out in front of her. It was scary, as though the magic was making her a part of the tree, and yet wonderful at the same time, because hadn’t she always felt that she ought to have been part of something larger than herself, a growing and organic whole? (In point of fact, she had not, but in the grip of the ritual, it felt as though she had.)

After a time, when she was fully aware of the magic seeping into her from every point of contact with the ground and the trunk of the tree, consciousness slipped away. She did not know if she was asleep, or in a trance. She had no idea what a trance felt like, in truth, but she suspected that this must be somewhere in-between, because the images she saw were rather indistinct and dreamlike, while she was certainly too aware of herself to be legitimately asleep.

She watched, confused, trying rather desperately to figure out what was going on, as she (apparently) set off to find the man who had betrayed her family. She saw herself getting lost, getting hurt in any number of ways. She saw herself finding him, watched as his life was taken by a burst of green light, as a hooded creature bowed its head over his, and pulled away to show an absent stare, the man’s mind gone.

She listened as he begged for his life, pleaded with her, telling her _I didn’t do it – it was the rat! Little Fawn, please!_ She saw herself give him a chance, let him explain, let him beg. She saw her heart soften, let him run away again. She saw her eyes grow hard. _I don’t believe you_ , she said, scathingly, and watched as the green light flashed.

If she had had a face and hands in that non-dream, she would have buried her eyes, and refused to look, but she didn’t, so she was forced to watch.

And then she saw herself going back to school, not seeking him out, and yet still finding him, at the end of the year – more begging, more choices. There was a sad, scared-looking little man, and the feral, half-mad Black, both of them kneeling before her, each pointing at the other. _It wasn’t me!_ They cried as one. _He’s the traitor!_

She woke at dawn, as the sun clawed its way over the horizon and the magic faded away, tears streaming down her face for the second time in two days. _And before yesterday_ , she thought sardonically, _I can’t remember the last time I cried._ Her mind whirled as she tried to make sense of the things she had seen, but try as she might, it was hopeless.

Ms. Persephone helped her to her feet with a small smile, and handed her a handkerchief, which Mary thought might have been the kindest thing anyone had ever done for her, before moving on to Miss Anna. “Go with grace,” she whispered, “and make your choices not in ignorance, but in confidence.”

_If only it were that easy_.

She followed the family to breakfast, staring moodily at her eggs and toast as though they might hold the answers she sought, and pushing them aside angrily when they failed to speak. She considered that it might help to write everything down, but no sooner had she started copying out what she had seen onto a fresh scroll than she felt immensely stupid about the whole endeavor, and completely unable to focus. After half an hour, she threw herself onto the bed and refused to move, hoping that, perhaps, real sleep would quiet her mind and make things clearer.

It didn’t.

 


	5. Mary Potter's Big Mistake

## Monday, 2 August – Friday, 6 August 1993

#### Urquhart Mansion

The week following Mary’s birthday passed in utter restlessness. The normal household routine resumed, but it was suddenly stifling, restrictive.

It didn’t help matters at all that Aunt Minnie had delivered Mary’s Hogwarts letter on Mary’s birthday, but Mary had forgotten it in all the excitement. When she finally read it, she found that she still couldn’t have a snake as a familiar, there were expanded dress-code requirements for third-years, and one of her textbooks was called ‘The Monster Book of Monsters’ (there were several others, but they all looked boring). All of these things which might, on any other day, have been somewhat interesting (or just irritating in the case of the No Snake Policy), paled in comparison to the implications of the last piece of parchment in the envelope.

It was a permission form to visit Hogsmeade on certain weekends throughout the year, a rite of passage for all third-year students.

It wasn’t signed.

Professor McGonagall had obviously opened the letter to add the post-script disallowing snakes. She had to have seen it. She must have known that Mary would have to bring it to her to have it signed. Why hadn’t she just signed it?

She couldn’t possibly be thinking of refusing, could she?

It seemed she could. Mary hadn’t opened the letter until after Aunt Minnie had left on Sunday evening. It took her until Tuesday to decide to owl and ask what the meaning of this was. (She actually just asked to have the form signed, hoping that it had been overlooked, or the Professor had somehow forgotten it, or just wanted Mary to ask like everyone else.)

Wednesday morning, the Professor came to have a discussion about the matter, face to face.

It didn’t go well.

Apparently the Professor was refusing to sign because she felt it would be unsafe for Mary to leave the castle when Sirius Black was on the loose.

She didn’t want to say why she thought Mary should be a target more than anyone else, but she did eventually (after nearly an hour of undignified begging and whining on Mary’s part) admit that the Aurors had told her, as Mary’s guardian, that Black was muttering in his sleep in the days before he escaped, about Hogwarts – someone being at Hogwarts – so they thought he might be headed for the school and therefore Mary.

Mary lost her temper entirely when she realized that the Professor hadn’t planned to tell her any of this at all, and had been thinking she could keep Mary locked up in the castle all year with no explanation. It wasn’t that she really disagreed with the judgement call, even – just the part where she was treated like a child who couldn’t handle the truth of her own precarious security situation.

Professor McGonagall had left after another hour of flaming row, after promising to tell Mary anything that may be relevant to her safety or the Black situation, provided Mary followed all reasonable security protocols to the bloody letter. ( _Like you told Emma Granger about the basilisk?_ Mary had shouted when the Professor first offered this compromise, setting off a whole other round of arguments.) The permission form, long-since burned to ashes to make a point, was never signed.

This did not improve Mary’s general outlook on life one whit. Now she was not only trapped in the Mansion, having to force herself through the daily routine, but she was to be restricted at Hogwarts as well, forced to miss out on one of the basic parts of being a third-year – Hogsmeade Weekends – all thanks to _fucking_ Sirius Black. Every new thing she learned about the man and the situation he had caused made her want to do even more incredibly destructive things, which made stumbling her way through piano lessons and formal logic, pretending nothing was wrong, an ever-larger pain in the arse.

She did manage to get some things accomplished, like asking Catherine how she was expected to get all her things to Hogwarts with only a single trunk (Undetectable Extension Charms, though the simple solution was to leave most of her things at Hogwarts in the future), and reading the section of the Iliad that the older girl had left bookmarked on her bed. It was the part where Achilles decided to fight and make a name for himself, rather than stay home and live safely, which Mary _thought_ meant Catherine had decided to _stay_ and live dangerously, at least for the moment, but she really wasn’t sure, and didn’t want to ask and admit she couldn’t figure out the former Slytherin’s cryptic message.

Still, by Friday, not a week after the ritual, Mary was ready to tear her hair out in frustration. That was probably why she did what she later came to consider the first truly stupid thing she had done in a very long time – probably the stupidest thing since agreeing to the Veritaserum Plot.

On Friday morning, instead of going to her regularly-scheduled dancing lesson, she sneaked out after breakfast to go flying.

###  Friday, 6 August – Saturday, 7 August 1993

#### At the edge of Lakes District National Park, just outside of Penrith, England

Really, when she thought about it, it wasn’t one _big_ mistake. It was more like a series of little mistakes, where she made the worst choice possible at every turn.

She shouldn’t have skived off of dance lessons to go flying. That was the first mistake. But she really, really needed to blow off steam, and she had been strongly discouraged from doing any kind of dangerous flying when William might see her, and the only time she could guarantee that he wouldn’t be watching (especially now that she knew he had been keeping track of her well enough to know where her hiding spot was, up on the roof) was when he was in lessons. She was also supposed to be in lessons at those times, but she didn’t think she would be able to concentrate, anyway. So she went flying.

She definitely shouldn’t have left the wards. In all fairness, she hadn’t meant to. She hardly noticed the tingle of magic as she crossed them. Still, when she had noticed that she was much further from the Mansion than she ever had been before, she should have gone back. But she was confident that she would be able to find her way back when she needed to. After all, it was a bloody big house! It should be easy enough to see if she went up high enough, or to use that nifty little _Point Me_ charm. So she went on.

She shouldn’t have reacted to the bad weather blowing in from the East (all nasty clouds and buffeting winds) with barred teeth and a wicked grin, but it had been ages since she’d done any challenging flying, and the weather matched her mood, so she did. She _really_ shouldn’t have continued her game of pelting headlong through the trees in a mad sort of slalom race as the weather continued to get worse.

On the other hand, she definitely _should_ have turned back when she heard thunder in the distance, and it started to rain, first lightly, then not-so-lightly. But this was fun, daring, taking-your-life-into-your-hands flying, and she loved it, so she didn’t.

She should have considered, at some point during the morning, that she was _well_ outside the bounds of where she ought to be, that no one knew where she was, and that she was doing dangerous, obviously magical stunts out in the open, where anyone could see (provided they were in the forest, looking up, during a thunderstorm).

She should probably have considered these things before lighting struck not a hundred meters away ( _There’s no anti-lightning wards on the bloody forest, Potter!_ she mentally reprimanded herself after the fact) startling her, and causing her to miss ducking under a particularly viciously-windblown limb, which definitely hadn’t been there a moment before. ( _Serves you right for not paying attention!_ )

When she woke up, powers only knew how many hours later, to see a small boy poking her with her own wand, she certainly wished she had.

“Where did you get that?” she croaked, trying not to move the ribs she knew were bruised, if not broken.

The boy pointed away through the trees. “’Dere.”

“Who are you? Where are your parents?”

“Tent. An’ I Mikey. I’m three!” He held up four fingers.

“Right, Mikey, give me my wand back.”

“No. ‘S’mine.” He hugged the wand close.

“No it’s not,” Mary sat up gingerly, and almost threw up from the pain when she tried to move her right arm. It was clearly broken. Again.

The boy spotted the limb, bent at an exceedingly strange angle, and ran off shrieking for his mum. He did, at least, drop the wand.

Mary crawled to it and clumsily summoned her broom with her left hand, mounting it gingerly and levitating herself straight up. She had to get back to the Urquharts, which meant she had to _find_ the Urquharts. She looked out over the unbroken stretch of trees to the west (she had come mostly east, hadn’t she?) and tried the locator charm. Her wand spun aimlessly in her hand.

It was with a sense of trepidation she had rarely felt since entering the wizarding world that she realized she was much further from home than she thought.

She was beginning to feel dizzy from pain (or maybe she had hit her head harder than she thought), and so she let herself sink back into the trees, headed for the ground in a much more controlled manner than the previous time.

“Mikey, are you sure there was a girl here?” a female voice asked loudly, not too far away.

Mary moved a bit further into the trees and landed, silently thanking Merlin, or whatever Power looked after thirteen-year-old idiots, that her broom was a top-of-the-line model, with half a dozen enchantments on it that she hardly ever used. A single command word ( _Minimus_ ) shrank it down so that it was barely as long as her wand, and a second ( _Occultus_ ) activated a somebody-else’s-problem field, which was the second-best class of Unobtrusive Charms. It might, really, have been better in this case, than notice-me-not, because the field was large enough that it would cover her wand, too. She tucked both of them in the waistband of her shorts, thanking the same Power again that she had worn muggle clothing today, under her robes.

Removing the robes themselves was a trick and a half, especially since she was trying not to move her broken arm, but she managed it eventually, abandoning the garment in the bushes to throw herself on the mercy of Mikey’s parents.

It wasn’t until she was in the Voitheia family’s car, on her way to the nearest hospital, that the true extent of her situation sank in. She had no way to contact the Urquharts or Professor McGonagall, or anyone in the magical world. She was on her way to a muggle hospital, and she didn’t even know if the Dursleys were still living in Little Whinging. Her cover story – that she had been on a camping trip with a school group, fell out of a tree, and got lost wandering around trying to find help in the storm – was shoddy at best.

Mr. and Mrs. Voitheia, thankfully, didn’t question it, seeing as she was soaked to the skin, covered in mud, missing one trainer, and had an obviously broken arm (she was pretty sure she had at least one cracked rib, too, and maybe a concussion, but they didn’t know that). They clearly decided they had more important things to worry about, like getting her some medical attention, and maybe some food and water, the poor dear.

#### Penrith General Hospital

The Voitheias dropped Mary off at the hospital. Mrs. Voitheia offered to stay, but Mary could read the relief in Mr. Voitheia’s eyes clearly enough when she thanked them profusely and said that no, she was sure there was nothing else they could do for her.

There were x-rays, and then in a flurry of activity, a nurse set her arm (which hurt, a lot) and plastered it into a cast; wrapped her ribs; and gave her an IV with something for ‘mild dehydration’ and a couple of pain pills. It turned out that she did not have a concussion, so she was allowed to sleep for several hours before another, less kindly nurse, turned up with paperwork, and all kinds of questions Mary couldn’t answer. It was hard to say whether Mary or the nurse was more frustrated by the fiftieth time Mary said “I don’t know.”

Eventually – around six o’clock, they had let her use the telephone. She tried the Dursleys’ old number first, and was told they had moved months ago. The only other number she knew was the Grangers’. They had returned from France the day before (yet another thing to be thankful for), and Emma must have heard the strain in her voice as she tried to explain her cover story and what had actually happened with the nurse eyeing her suspiciously. After five minutes, Emma had demanded to speak to the nurse directly. Mary didn’t know what she said, but whatever it was worked miracles, because the pushy, paperwork-toting woman left without another word.

Before she rang off, Emma promised that she was on her way, but that it might be a while. Penrith was, according to her atlas, quite a drive from the Grangers’ house. Waiting for her, all alone and unable to contact anyone, was perhaps the longest six hours of Mary’s life. She had nothing to do and couldn’t sleep, so she just sat, worrying about what the Urquharts and Professor McGonagall were going to say, and whether Emma would be very angry with her for making the woman drive halfway across the country so late in the evening. She spent a long time trying to justify her choices, and an even longer time silently cursing Sirius Black. This was all his fault. If he hadn’t broken out of prison, she wouldn’t have been nearly so antsy, and would be safely back at the Urquhart Mansion with Catherine.

Emma and Hermione showed up six hours later, both of them very worried (and Hermione looking like she might have fallen asleep in the car). Emma corroborated Mary’s cover story, saying that she lived with her aunt and uncle, but they had just moved recently, and obviously after such a traumatic experience, Mary was having trouble remembering the new address and telephone number. Emma was a friend of Mary’s late mother, though, no, unfortunately she was not close to the Dursleys, and didn’t have their new number either. She would, however, be happy to take the girl until they could work out exactly where the Dursleys had got off to.

The paperwork nurse, whose shift never seemed to end, didn’t seem to believe them, and wouldn’t let Emma take Mary, since she was not her legal guardian (and besides, someone needed to take responsibility for the paperwork!). Emma sent her away while she and the girls brainstormed ways to get in touch with the Dursleys. Mary had eventually remembered that Aunt Marge lived in Bath, so Emma suggested (forcefully) that the pushy nurse make herself useful by tracking down a Bath regional telephone directory. There was only one M. Dursley listed.

Emma called her at once, heedless of the time, and then again when she hung up immediately, demanding Vernon’s new number in her posh-est, most American tones. “Ah’m afraid it’s a rather urgent issue, Miss Dursley… Yes, in fact Ah _am_ aware of the time. It is no more convenient on mah end, Ah _assure_ you… No… No… That’s right, he is, and it _is_ , as Ah say, _rather urgent_ that Ah get in touch with him immediately… Emergency, yes… Of course this is about serious business. Ah hardly think Ah would be callin’ on a respectable lady such as yourself as such a _terribly_ unreasonable hour as this if it were anything less serious, Miss… Well, no, Ah couldn’t possibly… Well… Yes, you could put it that way. You’ve a way with words, Miss Dursley… Very well… Very well… Yes, Ah’ll hold… Thank you _ever so_ , Miss Dursley, you’ve been a _tremendous_ help.”

When she finally rang off, she made a face at the phone as though it were covered in vomit. “Hideous woman! I think she thought I was trying to get ahold of Vernon for something about work. Why they’d be calling him at four in the morning, I haven’t the foggiest. She did give us the number, though.”

Mary couldn’t help but smirk, imagining Marge, surrounded by her dogs and empty brandy bottles in bed, thinking that Vernon was so important to his stupid drill company that he had to take calls from America at all hours of the night.

The next phone call went rather more quickly, as Emma simply explained that if one of the Dursleys wasn’t here to sign the bloody forms and get Mary released from this hospital within the next six hours, Emma would be setting the police onto them for child abandonment and fraud, since she knew the girl hadn’t lived with the Dursleys for at least two years, and she was certain they were still accepting support payments on her behalf.

Emma let the girls sleep, while she went to wait in the lobby with a very strong cup of very sweet tea. Mary could hear her chatting with one of the nurses outside the door as she drifted off, Hermione clutching her good hand as though she was going to run away. The older girl had been unusually subdued since she arrived, hardly speaking outside of her greeting (“We have to stop meeting like this, Liz,”) and a weak joke about signing her cast. She asked what happened, but all Mary would say in public was that it was a flying accident. They likewise couldn’t really talk about what Mary had done over the past month, and Hermione didn’t seem to be inclined to talk about her visit with her French family, which rather put a damper on their conversation.

They were wakened just before seven by Emma and the paperwork nurse (seriously, did she never get to go home?) leading both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon into the room. Uncle Vernon set to the paperwork with the will of a man who lived to complain about bureaucratic nonsense under the watchful eye of the nurse. Aunt Petunia stared at Mary and Hermione as though they were something nasty on the bottom of her shoe. Emma watched Aunt Petunia with narrowed eyes, ready to deflect the conversation should she say one thing out of line.

Eventually, Mary couldn’t stand the awkward silence. This was, after all, exactly what she had been trying to get away from, all those hours ago. “Hello, Aunt Petunia.”

“Don’t speak!” Aunt Petunia hissed. Emma opened her mouth to interrupt, but Aunt Petunia _winked_ at her, and she held her tongue, confounded. “I don’t know _what_ you were thinking, running away from your chaperones like that, and I don’t want to know. You will have plenty of time to explain exactly what you thought you were doing in the car on the way home! How _could_ you have been so stupid as to misplace the new number? If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, you can’t rely on your memory in an emergency! The school called us hours ago – we’ve been worried sick, and we had no way to contact you, either! I said this whole trip was a bad idea from the start!” She went on like this for nearly fifteen minutes before she snapped, “Vernon, aren’t you almost done yet?”

“Nearly, Pet,” Vernon said, turning a page and copying a number off of a card from his wallet.

“I-I’m s-sorry, Aunt Petunia,” Mary stuttered, torn between laughter and horror. She’d had no idea Aunt Petunia could act. Granted, it was probably all just to cover the Dursleys’ arses in front of the nurse, who looked less and less suspicious of the situation as Aunt Petunia’s rant wore on, but it was still a bloody good impression of a worried parent.

“I said don’t speak! You haven’t the right, after the night you’ve given us. Imagine what Dudley would have said, if we’d had to tell him you’d gone missing, or worse, turned up dead in a bloody ditch somewhere, or with a broken neck, falling out of some bloody tree!”

In point of fact, Dudley would probably have been highly amused by either of those messages.

“I don’t even know why you were in a sodding tree to begin with! It’s hardly the sort of behavior I raised you to. Your mother would have been so disappointed to see her thirteen-year-old daughter falling out of trees! And I cannot even imagine what your father would have said. Maybe if they were still around you’d listen once in a while, instead of spending all your time off in your own little world, and then running off and bloody well getting yourself hurt!”

“Done, Pet,” Vernon announced, finally putting an end to the tirade.

“Right, then, get up, girl. Hurry up and change. If we hurry, we can get home before your cousin wakes up and burns down the house!”

Mary scrambled out of bed without a word, dragging Hermione with her to help with her cast.

Half a minute later there was a knock on the bathroom door. “Quickly, I said!”

The girls scurried out to the parking lot ahead of the adults and made a beeline for the Grangers’ car. They watched through the back window as Emma and the Dursleys exchanged a few more words, and then went their separate ways.

“I can’t believe you grew up with her,” Hermione said, finally. “She’s worse than Grandmère!”

“You have no idea,” Mary responded. “I can’t believe she went along with it.”

Emma, falling into the driver’s seat, smiled back at the girls tightly. “Neither can I, quite frankly. I was half-expecting them not to show up at all.”

“Thank you for coming to get me,” Mary said at once, relief warring with contrition in her tone.

Emma waved her thanks away. “What was I supposed to do? Leave you here? Anyway,” she added with a sigh, “we’d best be off. It’s a long way to Maidstone.”

###  Saturday, 7 August 1993

#### Granger Home, East Farleigh, Kent

Between a frightful accident just outside of London, and frequent but necessary stops for coffee, Emma and the girls did not make it back to the Grangers’ home until well into the afternoon. They passed the car ride (and stayed awake) by talking about what everyone had got up to over the past month. It started, of course, with a fairly intense discussion of exactly why Mary had seen fit to run away from the Urquharts (though she maintained that wasn’t exactly what had happened), and eventually ranged to include tea parties, new lessons, and the forbidden Hogsmeade Weekends, as well as all the drama surrounding the escape of Sirius Black.

In return, Hermione told Mary about France, and her relatives (including the frightful Grandmère), and Emma told her about the networking she and Dan had been doing. Mary was entirely certain that she would need to be told everything again when she was more awake, and said so, just as they were pulling into the drive. Emma just laughed and promised that she could go to sleep as soon as she sent an owl to the Urquharts telling them that she was safe at the Grangers’.

She did so (after convincing Hermione to write the note, because she most definitely was _not_ left-handed), and finally collapsed into sleep.

She woke, completely disoriented, not two hours later, to Professor McGonagall’s rather loud, shrill brogue, occasionally interrupted by Dan’s low, serious voice. She made her way to the living room, where she lurked out of the way, watching the rather harried-looking orthodontist facing down the incredibly irate witch. They were too focused on each other to notice her standing in the doorway.

“Keep your voice down, Minerva!” he admonished her, for what was certainly not the first time. “As I’ve said, my wife is trying to sleep. Beth is safe, and yes, she’s here, but I honestly haven’t the foggiest idea what happened. She called us from Penrith General last night, but I’ve barely been home an hour, and all the girls are asleep!”

“Well wake them up, then!”

“I most certainly will not. Beth has had a traumatic ordeal, and Emma was up all night taking care of her – something which I was given to understand is _your_ responsibility!”

“She _is_ my responsibility, and as such, I have every right to see her!”

“If you were so bloody worried about her, why didn’t you try to find her when she was laid up in hospital? She was there at least twelve bloody hours! Registered under her own name, even!” Mary was slightly taken aback by Dan’s tone. She had never heard him raise his voice before, even when during the Dobby showed up in the living room, or when she and Hermione had told the Grangers all the trouble they had gotten into over the course of the last school year. As if his yelling wasn’t shocking enough, he was _angry on her behalf._

“We did try to find her, you stubborn… _muggle_! She has anti-tracking charms on her, obviously!”

“And you never thought to enquire with the _muggle_ authorities, is that it?” Dan asked scathingly. Mary suddenly realized that this argument was about much more than her safety. “I know you think you’re better than us because you’ve got magic and we don’t, but we do a damn good job of taking care of ourselves without it, and your asinine insistence that magic is the be-all, end-all of problem solving limits your ability to –”

“Limits?” Professor McGonagall interrupted, the air around her shimmering like a heat wave as she lost her temper. “Limits?! Magic let my people live like kings while _yours_ were grubbing in the dirt like common swine!”

“Well, I hate to break it to you,” Dan said with the cool superiority of one who has just won an argument with the moral high ground intact, “but we’ve caught up, and then some. Welcome to the 20th century. Now get out. Your _prejudice_ is not welcome in my home.”

Mary didn’t think that the Professor could have looked any more shocked if Dan had physically slapped her. Some of her bluster vanished with the word _prejudice_ , but she didn’t go.

“Regardless of whether I am welcome, it is my responsibility to see that Mary is safe and well,” she said stiffly.

“As far as I’m concerned, you forfeited that right when you _drove her to run away_ , and then failed to even enquire at the nearest hospital to your so-called safe house as to whether she had turned up there. We are, as you may have noticed, in the _muggle_ world at the moment, and as I understand it, you are her guardian only in _Magical_ Britain. So you have no more right to her than we do. We will not keep you from her _if_ she wants to see you, but I will _not_ have you storming in here and disrupting her rest, along with the rest of my family. Now, as I’ve said, you should go.”

“But –”

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” Dan said irritably, “this is your final warning: If you don’t get out of my house, I will disinvite you. I’ve been assured that the effects of being forcibly removed by the wards are decidedly unpleasant. So you should go.”

Minerva went very stiff, visibly restraining herself from hexing this muggle man who dared threaten to use magic against her, but she finally turned and moved for the front door without another word.

“No, wait!” Mary heard herself say. Both adults turned to face her. Dan looked irritated that she had interrupted him, and the Professor looked torn between rage and embarrassment. Mary swallowed hard. She knew better than to interrupt adults, but she suspected that if the Professor walked out now, Mary would never get to visit the Grangers again after she went back to Hogwarts. “I’m already up. We can talk.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Dan assured her... protectively? Maybe he wasn’t so irritated, then.

“No, it’s okay. I wasn’t… running away. Not really. It was just a misunderstanding and then I… got lost. Kind of. It was my fault, anyway. Aunt Minnie didn’t do anything.”

“If you’re sure, sweetheart.” He shot a look at the Professor. “Do you want me to stay?”

Mary shook her head. At least an illusion of privacy would probably be a good idea.

“All right, I’ll be in the bedroom. Yell if you need me.” He squeezed Mary’s shoulder in a way she was sure was meant to be reassuring as he left the room.

“Okay.”

Mary and the Professor took their seats awkwardly on the sofa. For someone who was ostensibly so worried about her ward, the older witch’s first question (“How long were you listening?”) didn’t really show it.

Mary raised a Slytherin eyebrow at her. “I’m fine, thanks for asking. Long enough to hear I’ve got anti-tracking charms on me,” she added, rather tactfully, in her opinion.

The Professor’s chin went up anyway, and she tried to defend herself. “It’s not that – I don’t condone – I fought for the light, you know,” she finally said. “It’s wrong to kill muggles, and treat them like animals. But… I was raised to believe that magic – having magic – does make us different, and better, than muggles. I’m not… proud… of that belief. Not after, well, you know. But living the way we do, it’s… hard, sometimes, to realize that they aren’t just what you read about in history texts anymore.”

Mary snorted slightly at that. She had offered the woman a way out, but if she didn’t want to take it, Mary wasn’t going to make it easy for her to forgive herself the momentary lapse in political correctness. “That’s not really an excuse, and you know it,” she answered harshly. “You’re the main contact between muggleborns, their families, and the magical world, _for God’s sake_ ,” she went on, using the muggle explicative intentionally. “If anyone should be able to appreciate that muggles aren’t exactly living in the Dark Ages anymore, it should be you.”

The Professor didn’t seem to have anything to say to that, and after a long moment, when it was clear no response would be forthcoming, Mary decided that a guilty and speechless Aunt Minnie was an Aunt Minnie who was more likely to forgive Mary for her own mistakes.

“I’m sorry I ran away,” she offered, trying very hard to sound as sorry as she was while she was waiting in that hospital bed for Emma to arrive. “I didn’t mean to. It was kind of an accident.”

Unfortunately the change of subject seemed to bolster the older woman’s confidence. “What in Merlin’s name were you thinking?”

“I, erm, wasn’t?” Mary tried her best to explain herself and what had happened, as the Professor’s lips grew thinner and thinner – normally a sign of anger.

Finally, at the end of the story, she heaved out a large breath and responded: “Shall I tell you what happened at the Urquharts’, then?” She continued without awaiting a reply. “They realized you were gone almost at once, of course, but Catherine rightly assumed you had just gone flying and would return in your own time.

“Morgana felt you cross the ward line and had an elf notify Stephen and Conrad at once to go look for you. As you are now aware, you have an extensive series of anti-tracking charms on your person. Professor Snape suggested that it would be incredibly easy for your enemies to find you outside of the school, you see. They flew a search pattern for several hours, but there was no sign of you and they were grounded by that same storm you so joyfully flew into.

“Several hours later, we had two owls from Mafalda ‘I live to nag’ Hopkirk in the Improper Use of Magic Office, over your summoning and location charms. At least I can tell her you used them in an effort to avoid a more serious breach of the Statute. She’ll probably still apply a fine, though, the harpy, especially since the anti-tracking charms interfered with the trace, so they couldn’t say exactly where you were either, just that you weren’t behind proper wards.

“Catherine, of course, was frantic. She tried sending the elves to find you, but even they can’t get a trace on you outside of the house, and the men were speculating on whether Black had caught you somehow, which only made it worse. And then, a full day after Mafalda’s letters, we finally get an owl saying that you’re fine, and at the Grangers’, in Miss Granger’s handwriting, which suggested you weren’t fine at all!”

“I am fine! I just broke my arm!” Mary said defensively. “And cracked a rib. Um, you couldn’t fix it, could you?”

“I’m no mediwitch,” the Professor said, “but I’m sure we can go to St. Mungo’s tomorrow and have it sorted out.” She looked pleased that Mary preferred magical healing to muggle medicine (though honestly, who wouldn’t?).

Before Mary could agree to that plan, Emma’s voice called out from the doorway where Mary herself had previously been lurking. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Minerva.”

The witch bristled at once. “Even you must admit that our healers are far superior to your doctors!” she snapped.

“With certain things, yes,” Emma said calmly, raising an eyebrow at the older woman. “I’m not debating that.” She moved to join them, taking an armchair from which she could see them both. “I simply think that Mary Beth has become spoilt by her experiences with magical healing. How many times has she been in your Hospital Wing in the past two years?” she asked, probably rhetorically, but Mary actually tried to think… it had to be at least half a dozen times. “I simply suggest,” Emma continued smoothly, “That it would behoove her to heal at a normal rate, as a reminder that she is, indeed, as mortal as the rest of us, and would do well to exercise a bit more caution and even, on occasion, think before she acts.”

Mary did not like the look on Professor McGonagall’s face at all as she considered this. She wouldn’t agree. She couldn’t – without her right arm, Mary wouldn’t be able to fly or cast spells properly for at least six weeks. Plus she wouldn’t be able to keep in touch with anyone if she couldn’t write, and it kind of hurt to breathe.

“For the summer,” the Professor finally said. “She needs to be able to use her wand properly when term starts, so she’ll have to be healed when she goes back to school.”

“I believe that should be acceptable.”

“But…” Mary could hardly believe it. Hadn’t she just been saying that magical healing was better? “ _No._ Please... Emma, Aunt Minnie, I won’t be able to write, or do magic or _anything_ , and my ribs _really hurt_.”

“You should have thought of that before you decided to risk life and limb flying under the tree line during a thunderstorm. You’re lucky you didn’t get hit by lightning instead of a tree branch,” Emma said sharply. There was no room for argument in her tone. “And if your ribs hurt so badly, you may fetch yourself an aspirin. Second shelf in the vanity,” she added, pointing down the hallway toward the bathroom.

Seeing no hope for rescue in the Professor’s face, either, Mary went, stomping off with a huff. She couldn’t even say it wasn’t a fair punishment, but she was far from pleased.

Adding insult to injury – literally – the aspirin was child-proof, which meant she needed both hands to open it. No amount of trying to crush it against her leg and twisting or biting at the cap would do it (and she did try, for nearly five minutes). She simply couldn’t manage with the cast. _Bloody stupid Emma. And stupid Minnie, too – how_ could _she agree to this?_ she ranted inside her head as she stalked back to the living room, even more irritated at the prospect of having to ask one of her tormentors to open the stupid bottle for her.

By the time she reached the doorway, however, the conversation had moved on, and she was momentarily distracted from her ire and her aching ribs, because somehow, it had gotten all turned around, and Emma was giving the Professor parenting advice.

“Well, I imagine it’s rather different, being Head of House for all of them, as opposed to being in charge of just the one. After all, the only rules out here are the ones you make, and there’s no points to take away.”

“It is, rather. I hadn’t expected it to be, but, well… maybe there’s a reason I never had children of my own.” The Professor sighed, sounding suddenly _old_.

Emma made a bit of an _hmm_ noise, and then, “Honestly, I think you’ve done as well as anyone could. From what I’ve seen, and, again, what the girls have said, you’ve kept a fairly professional relationship at most times – oh, don’t look at me like that, it’s a good thing. You are still her professor, and as I’ve been saying, she wouldn’t have taken it well if you came out of nowhere acting like her mother. And it’s not as though she’s not fond of you. She would never whine at you or try to talk back if she didn’t trust you, you know. But she’s still trying to figure out the roles you and I, and probably Catherine and this Snape character I’ve heard so much about play in her life, and what our relationships ought to be like. You can’t just say you’re a terrible guardian because of one misunderstanding.”

“Your husband seemed to think I could.”

“Dan only knew what I knew when we left to fetch Mary – that she was in hospital with a broken arm. I’m afraid he took the fact that she was no longer at her safe house to mean that she must have had a reason to run away, when, as you and I now know, it was more that she got lost in the woods.”

“Bloody stupid chit,” the Professor grumbled with a surprising amount of venom. “She ought to have known she wouldn’t be able to find the house again. She should never have left the wards, but when she did, she should have turned back at once!”

“Did anyone ever tell her that? You can’t just give them rules without reasons, you know.”

Professor McGonagall laughed humorlessly. “I suppose they didn’t. She’s never had a reason to leave the wards overland, so far as I know.”

“If nothing else, I think that’s the lesson you need to take from this,” Emma offered. “It’s not that you’re failing, here, it’s just that you and she are both a little out of your depth. No matter how good she’s gotten at blending into your world, she still doesn’t have the background that you or Catherine would take for granted, like knowing that there’s, what was it? Some kind of wards or enchantments, to disguise the house against aerial attack?” _Damn it!_ Mary thought irritably. _I should have known that!_

“Yes, glamours and Notice Me Not Charms woven into the wards.” Professor McGonagall explained, and then groaned in frustration. “Is it wrong of me to wish that Mary could be as well-behaved as Hermione?”

Mary nearly snorted at this, thinking of all the trouble Hermione had gotten into over the course of the previous term. Snape must not have talked to the Professor about the Veritaserum thing. In any case, Emma answered smoothly. “Beth’s a good girl. I’m sure if you make it clear why she needs to follow the rules, she will be more than happy to do so. Anyway, there was one other thing I thought I should discuss with you, while I have you here.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“The issue of Beth’s mundane guardianship. Petunia Dursley was… not pleased, when she realized that she still bore some responsibility for the girl out here in the UK. I don’t know how she missed it, given that she’s still getting government support, but it might be for the best if you looked into transferring custody to, well… just about anyone else, frankly.”

This was rather a shock to Mary. She hadn’t given much thought to the Dursleys since she had left them. Until she had gotten stuck at the hospital, she hadn’t even considered that they were still her muggle guardians. Getting away from them permanently in the muggle world as well would be a great relief, she thought, for both the Dursleys and herself. She simply hadn’t the foggiest idea how to go about it.

“I’ll add it to the queue,” the Professor said with a resigned air. “It might have to wait until school is back in session. My schedule’s full up through September. I’m getting further behind as we speak.”

Emma changed the subject again. “Is the shopping trip still on for this coming Saturday?”

Professor McGonagall must have nodded, because she said, “It’s going to be a nightmare. Last year was a madhouse, and there’s even more families this year. _Twenty_ muggleborn students – it’s more than we’ve had in almost twenty years.”

“Well, Dan and I will be there to help with questions and currency, and I like to think we’ve been to the Alley enough times now to help chaperone.”

“I did have my reservations at first, but yes, I think that will be very helpful. Several of the other professors will be attending as well.”

“All right, how’s this: we’ll keep Beth here for the week, give her a chance to unwind and sort through her issues with Black and the like, and we’ll all meet you at the Leaky on Saturday?” Mary’s heart rose at the thought of having an unscheduled week with Hermione. That would go a long way to making up for three weeks of dealing with her stupid broken arm.

“You know she’s worried about Black – you must know he’s still on the loose.”

“If you couldn’t find her yesterday, I don’t see how Black could. She’s not any less safe here this week than she was a month ago.”

“Catherine will worry. She wasn’t at all reassured by that note.”

“I’ll write her a proper letter now we’ve got the full story and invite her for tea tomorrow.”

“Mary will get behind in her studies,” the Professor objected, but she sounded like she was close to relenting.

“Will one week really make a difference? Besides, you teach children. Are you really telling me that you think it would be productive for her to keep working when she’s so stressed that she’s willing to risk her life just to get out of the house? She’s thirteen, not thirty, Minerva. She needs a vacation.”

“Fine! All right. You win. Meet outside the Leakey Cauldron at nine. I’m sure you won’t be able to miss us.”

“Excellent! I’ll fetch Beth to say goodbye.”

At that, Mary ran for her room so that she wouldn’t be caught eavesdropping. Mere seconds after she rolled into bed, damning her ribs, Emma knocked, and then opened the door to lean on its frame.

“You’re not nearly as sneaky as you think you are,” she said with a grin. “Are you going to come out and say farewell?”

Mary groaned. “What gave me away?”

“The running footsteps were a bit of a hint.”

The girl made a face at herself. “Yeah, I’ll come. Can you open these?” she added, holding out the child-proofed bottle she was still carrying.

Emma took it without a word, ushering Mary toward the living room and their guest.


	6. Laying the Groundwork

##  Sunday, 8 August – Friday, 13 August 1993

#### Granger Home, East Farleigh, Kent

Mary’s unscheduled week with the Grangers was much more relaxed than the first week of summer had been (or, truly, any week she could recall in quite some time). There was no argument about whether Hermione could go back to school; no flurry of planning to take over the wizarding world; no shopping sprees or sudden trips to Gringott’s. Mary’s arm was still broken, of course, and there was still a low-grade anxiousness whenever her thoughts turned to Sirius Black, but she was easily distracted with stories of France and the latest exploits of the Drs. Granger, by movies and music, and of course by Hermione’s latest mad idea: disguises.

The idea of disguising Mary for their trip to Diagon Alley had come up quite accidentally. On Tuesday, when both of the adults were at work, Mary and Hermione had been sitting in the living room, watching Disney movies and practicing first-year spells with left-handed wand movements. Mary had mentioned the latest article in the Prophet reminding the public that Black was still on the loose, and they had gotten to talking about why Black could possibly have been after her, and how he would know her when he saw her. That was when Hermione said, “You know, if we could change your hair color and get you contacts, you’d look like a different person.”

They hadn’t been able to get her contacts on such short notice, but they had managed to get a bottle of hair dye from the corner store, and, with much giggling, had made Mary a brunette to match Hermione. After extracting the reason behind the sudden makeover (and making Hermione bleach the leftover dye out of the bathtub), Emma gave the girls a lesson in applying muggle makeup so that they could hide the tell-tale scar. She also pointed out that Mary was due for a real haircut – her fringe was nearly long enough to cover her nose.

On Wednesday, therefore, the girls had gone on an adventure, taking a bus into town and wandering around until they found a likely-looking salon. The stylist clucked her tongue over their clumsy dye-job, and insisted on fixing it before styling Mary’s hair into an adorable bob, which Mary was certain she would never be able to duplicate. Sure enough, after her shower that night, it reverted into a mop of messy curls, which made her look even more like Hermione’s sister.

Dan’s reaction – a comment to that effect – was the impetus for part three of the plan (after changing her hair and covering up the scar): for the duration of their visit to Diagon Alley, Mary would be referred to as ‘Elizabeth Granger.’ Hermione tried to get her to agree to pretend to be a new first-year as well, but Mary put her foot down at that. She might have been small for her age, but she definitely wasn’t little enough to be an eleven-year-old anymore. (She was absolutely sure, because Emma had made her try on all of her clothes when they re-organized her trunk at the beginning of the summer, and all of the clothes she had bought on her first trip to the Alley were far too small.)

Between these exploits, the girls had exchanged several letters with Lilian, Catherine, and the Weasleys, whom Hermione had been writing regularly all summer, despite the fact that she was well aware that Mary was still angry with the twins. When Mary asked her about it (accused her, actually, of neglecting their friendship by not supporting her feud with the boys), Hermione insisted that she was biding her time and lulling them into a false sense of security so that she could do something truly awful to them when they got back to school. “Don’t forget, Lizzie,” she had said with a frankly terrifying, predatory grin, “they turned me into a _catgirl_. Even if I wasn’t mad at them on your behalf – and believe me, I am – I have my own score to settle with them.” She refused to tell Mary what she had in mind for revenge, which meant it was either horrifying beyond words and completely illegal, or she hadn’t come up with anything suitable yet, and didn’t want to admit it. It really could go either way with the Ravenclaw.

Lilian and the Weasleys had been informed of Mary’s misadventure first thing Sunday, when Hermione finally woke up. Catherine had come to tea in person on Sunday as well (and brought Mary’s trunk, which she was very grateful to have), and had since been sending daily owls checking up on Mary. She, for one, agreed with Mary that refusing to heal her arm was a horrible punishment, especially since it meant Mary couldn’t really answer her letters, and instead had to ask Hermione to do it. This resulted in rather short replies, as the older girl thought it unnecessary to elaborate on “Yes, Lizzie’s still fine. Nothing of note has happened since yesterday.”

“Nothing of note has happened since yesterday” wasn’t, strictly speaking, true. There was always something going on, whether it was improving Mary’s disguise or introducing her to what Hermione considered classic muggle culture (“You’ve never seen Star Wars?! Dad! What did you do with the Star Wars tapes?”) or discussing the latest developments in the Grangers’ attempts to get a floo connection (On Catherine’s recommendation, Emma had contacted a lawyer named Andi Tonks to deal with the fact that Bethany Edgecombe, Head Regulator of the Floo Network Authority, was apparently an outrageous bigot), but none of these things had anything to do with Catherine.

Lilian and Aerin returned from Spain on Thursday, and were immediately invited to join the muggleborn shopping trip on Saturday. Lilian agreed at once, but Aerin said she already had plans to go school shopping with Lara Zuthe, a fellow Ravenclaw, the following weekend. Hermione spent all of Friday morning trying to decide if this meant Aerin was still upset with her over the Veritaserum Plot. As much as Mary tried to comfort her friend, she suspected it did. The older Ravenclaw had not been pleased at all with the outcome of their plan.

Friday afternoon in particular was very noteworthy. Both of the Drs. Grangers were at their practice, even though it was supposed to be Emma’s day off. Padraig, one of their junior partners, had called in sick. Dan had (rather reluctantly) told the girls to expect a witch called Devon Troy (whose sex, apparently, had been a great mystery for the better part of Hermione’s summer) to drop by with a prototype of their magical generator. He seemed worried about the girls meeting the strange witch without himself or Emma present, but there was really nothing he could do about it at that point, since it was too late to re-schedule Devon’s trip – Iris, their owl, would never reach her in time, and she was off on a trip to Emma’s lawyer friend, anyway.

As Mary had learned over the course of the week, Devon was an enchantress who specialized in mechanical artificing – creating magical artifacts with lots of moving parts. Even better, her father was a mechanic, so she had a basic understanding of how engines and electrical generators worked. She was a friend of Bill Weasley, a wardcrafter and cursebreaker who had the dubious pleasure of being the twins’ eldest brother.

Dan had been put in touch with the pair of them through Arthur Weasley, whom Xeno Lovegood had recommended when Dan asked if the eccentric publisher knew of anyone who would be interested in trying to overcome the problems of making magic and muggle technology work together. Apparently Mr. Weasley owned a flying car. He did not, however, know anything about electricity or how it interacted with wards and other enchantments, so he had forwarded Dan’s letter to his son and peppered the muggle man with a flurry of questions about muggle life, including “What is the purpose of a rubber duck?” and “Why does air need conditioning?”

Dan had answered these queries with good humor, even going so far as to send the wizard a book on muggle home maintenance, but he had been far more interested in his correspondence with Bill. The younger wizard had explained that while some of the ideas he proposed for integrating magic into muggle life, like a chime that sounded when anyone who was intending to visit the Grangers entered their street, were completely feasible and relatively easy to accomplish, others were completely impossible. These included enchantments to cut down on manual cleaning by getting rid of dust and dirt in the carpets and for heating and cooling the house (such enchantments had to be worked into the structure of the building, and would wreak havoc with any electrics nearby, plus cleaning enchantments were considered more trouble than they were worth – it was less work to clean by hand); and spells to replace yardwork (not only were spells on living things tricky, delicate to maintain, and likely to kill all their grass outright instead of keeping it properly short, but it would look suspicious if no one ever mowed the Grangers’ lawn).

The one idea that Bill said real merit and needed further development was the magically powered generator. It turned out that Dan had been absolutely correct – even if they put up wards worthy of one of the Old Families, as long as they were perimeter-based and didn’t fill the space inside the building, electricity should work inside. This shouldn’t be a problem, as most blanket wards were keyed to an individual witch or wizard, so they wouldn’t work for the Grangers, anyway. (Dan had apparently been bluffing when he threatened to disinvite the Professor from the house – such a ward would never work for a muggle, as awesome as it sounded.) Bill had passed the generator idea on to Devon, who was more than happy to collaborate on the project. The two enchanters had quickly come up with a series of spells they thought should work to spin the rotor and insulate the primary enchantments from interference as electricity was produced.

Dan had visited Devon’s workshop to see the model she had built on the same day Emma had fetched Mary back to the Grangers. It seemed to work on a small scale. Fabricating the pieces of the full-sized prototype had taken a bit longer, but it was finally done.

The witch, a short, thin woman whose movements reminded Mary of a bird, arrived at half two, carrying a small drawstring pouch which opened until it was more mouth than bag. This she set on the picnic table in the garden, and from it she heaved a large contraption of copper and magnets, set in a bluish steel frame. From it protruded several copper wires, roughly wrapped in muggle electrical tape and attached to what looked like a pair of standard wall outlets.

Hermione had, at Devon’s request, brought a lamp outside to test the device. After warning the girls not to touch anything, the older witch had spoken the activation word, and the mass of copper began to spin, the occasional spark jumping from the coil to its cage. These looked more like magic than electricity, blue-green or red, rather than white. After running a few diagnostic tests (establishing, she explained, that nothing had gone wrong in transport and reading the ambient magical and magnetic fields in the area), Devon cautiously clicked on the lamp.

It worked, briefly. The light came on, and stayed on for nearly a minute. But then the bulb began to swell, balloon-like, and the stand of the lamp began to melt, dripping in rivulets like a strange, wooden candle. The enchantress killed the power at once, but the transfigurations didn’t stop until the lamp had melted enough that the bulb could float free of its housing. It hovered at about head-height, still glowing, as Devon took notes excitedly.

She was still taking notes when three representatives of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad appeared with a coordinated crack at points surrounding the generator and the hovering balloon-bulb. Devon and Mary jumped, and Hermione let out a little _eep_ of shock and fear. Mary nearly had her wand pointed at the nearest witch when one of her partners announced their official affiliation and ordered her to stand down. She did so reluctantly, not putting her wand away, but at least lowering it to point at the ground.

“Troy? Devon Troy?” the witch whom Mary had threatened apparently recognized the enchantress. “What in the name of Merlin’s saggy left ball is going on here?”

“Myrna! Language!” the other strange witch reprimanded her.

“Who the bloody hell are all you people?” Hermione demanded of them. “And what are you doing in my garden?”

The wizard who had announced that they were an Accidental Magic Reversal Squad repeated himself, adding that “The one with the mouth like a jarvey over there is Myrna Wilkins. The stuck-up swot is Rose Parkinson, and I’m Kris Saunders. May I ask who I’m addressing?” he inquired, ducking Ms. Parkinson’s swat at his head.

“Elizabeth and Hermione Granger,” Hermione answered, “and I guess Ms. Wilkins already knows Miss Troy,” she added, but this went unnoticed as Ms. Parkinson noticed Mary’s scar, which she hadn’t bothered to cover up for a quick trip out into the garden.

“You’re Mary Potter!” she exclaimed. “What’re you doing here? Pansy said you’re living with old Minnie McGonagall!”

Mary had no idea where Pansy had heard that. (Well, actually, she could guess that it had to be Lilian, and they’d be having a talk about it later.) She blinked in confusion for a moment before she said, “I’m visiting a friend,” as though this should be patently obvious.

“You’re getting off track, Thorny,” Ms. Wilkins interrupted. “Troy, why are you here, and what the bloody fuck did you do?”

Ms. Parkinson didn’t bother correcting her partner’s language this time, instead giving the enchantress a hard glare.

“What makes you think I did anything?” Devon asked cagily.

All three strangers pointed silently at the generator, and Ms. Wilkins added, “I _did_ spend seven years in a dorm with you. _This_ has Devon Troy written all over it.”

Devon sighed. “Fine, yes, it was me. It needed to be tested in conditions where the ambient magic was undisturbed by regular magical practice!”

“So you thought you’d just bring it over to a muggle garden and light it up? What does this thing even do, anyway?” Mr. Saunders asked incredulously.

“I reserve the right not to discuss the artefact as it’s still under development,” Devon responded automatically.

“It’s a magical-electric hybrid power source,” Ms. Wilkins answered with a smirk, now peering at the generator from a safe distance.

“Do you have a technomancy permit?” Ms. Parkinson asked sharply.

“Of course I do!”

“Let’s see it, then.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake! This isn’t even your job!”

“We deal with _all_ accidental magic,” Mr. Saunders said, backing up his colleague. “Not just kids’ stuff. Hand it over.”

“Fine!” the enchantress huffed, and summoned a bit of parchment with several official-looking seals and stamps from the depths of her bag with a quick “ _Accio concessus_!”

While the three witches argued over whether Troy had been outside the bounds of her permit to test her artefact outside her workshop, Hermione tried to get Mr. Saunders to explain exactly what had happened and why it had triggered the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad’s intervention, despite the fact that Hermione and Mary were allowed to do simple spells on the Grangers’ property.

“Well, it’s not like that was a simple spell,” he said, motioning at the still-hovering lightbulb and half-melted lamp. “It set off our sensors as being big, uncontrolled, and with a lot of unfocused magical discharge.”

“What does that mean, though?” Hermione asked, clearly frustrated.

The man shot a look at his partners, and, apparently deciding that they had Devon well in hand, took a seat at the picnic table to try to explain more thoroughly. “You guys are, what, fourth-years?”

“Going into third,” Mary answered.

“Right.” He brushed a hand over his close-cropped hair in obvious frustration. “So, it’s like this: wand magic, the sort of spells Flitwick and McGonagall teach, is tightly controlled, and doesn’t make much impact on external magic outside of the intended effects. Same for wandless magic like Dumbledore sometimes uses. It’s very precise and deliberate. There’s wards on the house that detect anything like that. You mentioned you have some kind of exception, right?”

Hermione nodded.

“Well, that didn’t actually disable the sensors, they would have just changed the range of effects that trigger the notification at the Underage Magic Office. You’d still get an owl if you tried to curse your parents or something.” Mary nodded. She had heard Hermione complain about the fact that she could only practice up to third-year spells more than once.

“The next most common sort of magic, and most of what we deal with, is accidental, uncontrolled magic, where your power lashes out and rather clumsily creates the desired effects, but also makes major ripples in the natural magic of the area. We have a net up over the entire country to alert us to that kind of thing, because it’s often that which comes closest to breaking the Statute. Plus it’s how we identify muggleborns. If you have big, uncontrollable magic happening around you, you’re going to need to go to school to learn how to control it.”

“But I did loads of accidental magic before I came to Hogwarts, and I don’t remember ever having a visit from the Magic Reversal Squad,” Hermione objected.

“Me either,” Mary confirmed.

Mr. Saunders had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Well, Miss Potter, you may not ever have gotten one. I’m not sure how they deal with muggle-raised purebloods. You could have already been on a list or something. But Miss Granger, it’s likely your memory of your first several episodes of accidental magic were completely obliviated. We do that if the accident is spectacular enough or has far-enough-reaching consequences that it can’t be otherwise explained or covered up, especially if the child isn’t old enough to understand and keep the Statute.” He ignored the girls’ horrified looks. “Of course, most children do eventually begin to access magic without the extreme emotional upheaval that accompanies accidental magic, and that doesn’t have nearly as much fallout, so it’s largely ignored by our sensors.”

“Like charming my teacher’s hair blue?” Mary asked.

“Or making the lights flicker?” Hermione suggested.

Mr. Saunders nodded. “Things like that have less of a broad impact, but aren’t… sharp enough, I guess you could say, to register as wand-magic. They look more like natural fluctuations in the ambient background magic.”

Hermione nodded, and Mary, thinking of the very odd conversation she had had with Snape at the end of the previous year asked, “Like freeform magic?”

The wizard’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. “Yes, very much like freeform magic.”

“What’s that?” Hermione asked.

“It’s, erm… Something Snape mentioned to me last year. You were busy turning yourself into a cat,” she added, when the indignant Ravenclaw looked to be about to ask why she hadn’t said anything about it sooner.

“Oh,” she said, flushing under the ministry official’s questioning stare.

They were saved from having to explain that aside by the sudden arrival of a Ministry owl, which swooped into the garden, dropped a letter in front of Hermione, and then swooped away immediately.

 _Dear Ms. Granger_ , Mary read over Hermione’s shoulder:

_We have received intelligence that a Summoning Charm was used at your place of residence this afternoon at three minutes of three._

_The Summoning Charm is classified as a grade-four spell, and is therefore not subject to your exception to the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. Said exception has accordingly been rescinded. Any further spellwork on your part may lead to expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1857, Paragraph C)._

_We would also ask you to remember that any magical activity that risks notice by members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense under Section 13 of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy._

_Enjoy your holidays! Yours sincerely,_

_Andrew Carson_

_IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE_

_Ministry of Magic_

The doctors Granger returned home not long after the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad and Devon Troy departed to find their daughter in near-hysterics over the thought that she might be expelled from Hogwarts for something that wasn’t even her fault. Mary, on the other hand, was rather anxious about the fact that the ministry officials now knew where she was. Her best defense in the muggle world was anonymity (and apparently anti-tracking spells), and they had rather ruined that.

Devon had written an affidavit admitting to casting the charm, and the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad had promised to deliver it and have a word with their department head (Accidental Magic and Improper Use of Magic were both in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement), but Hermione was unable to calm down without official assurances that her name and record had been cleared. She had made Mary put her wand in her trunk and had done the same herself, so they wouldn’t forget and do a levitation charm or something by accident. This was probably a good idea, as Mary found her hand straying toward the pocket that normally held her wand more than once, itching to continue practicing her left-handed casting. It had taken her a shameful amount of time to get her wand out and pointed when the ministry officials had arrived.

Emma was rather irritated with Dan when she heard the story, since it was his guest who had set off the whole situation. She drafted a letter to the Improper Use of Magic Office and sent the recently-returned Iris back to Mrs. Tonks with a summary of the day’s events, inquiring as to whether the Ministry could actually expel students. From the books she had read, it seemed they couldn’t. The referenced paragraph only said that the ministry could _recommend_ expulsion, and could refuse to allow a child to sit their OWL exams. After apologizing for the whole situation, Dan cooked quietly, keeping his head down around his irritated wife and worried daughter.

After dinner that evening, instead of researching wards or laws or electrical engineering, the rather tense and snappish Grangers sat down together to make their shopping lists (new uniforms, new books for classes, a dicta-quill for Mary) and discuss the Alley excursion the following day. They had been owling back and forth to Hogwarts all week, making arrangements and arguing about The Plan.

All of the muggleborns had long since RSVP’d to the trip – eighteen of them would be attending, with twenty-six assorted parents, guardians, and siblings, plus the Grangers and Mary, and Professors McGonagall, Burbage, Vector, Sinistra and Snape. Mary had some reservations about introducing Snape to the muggle parents – he wasn’t really the most _welcoming_ person on the staff and had, after all, been a Death Eater – but he was one of the youngest professors, and _had_ been raised in the muggle world with Mary’s mum, which meant he was probably better-suited than most to interact with actual muggles. Probably.

It had rather quickly been decided that the party would be split into seven groups, with one chaperone and at least two muggle parents per group. Emma had wanted each of the adults to cover a certain shop or set of shops, meeting up periodically, perhaps for lunch or ice cream. Mostly, she admitted to the girls, this was because she wanted a chance to talk to each of the muggle parents, not just the two or three in her group, but it would also be good if each of the families had a chance to talk to all of the professors, to ask any questions they might have about the school that the Grangers couldn’t answer. The Professor had agreed, promptly delegating the whole planning process to the Grangers and Professor Sinistra.

According to Professor Sinistra, the Deputy Head was a bit overwhelmed, as she had put everything on hold to visit the muggleborns’ families in the first place. She was currently buried under a mountain of ministry-mandated paperwork she had neglected throughout the course of July. It was left unsaid that Mary’s running off and getting lost hadn’t helped a bit with the Professor’s workload, but she felt very bad anyway.

In any case, as the Astronomy professor wrote, with Professor McGonagall legitimately too busy and all the other professors involved _claiming_ to be so as well, it fell to them to get everything organized for the trip. She had drawn a map of the Alley and marked out where each of the shops they would need to visit were located, and sent a list of the families attending, broken into the agreed-upon groups.

First would be the bank for everyone, they decided, since all of the new students and their parents would need to change pounds for galleons. Then each of the chaperones would take one of the groups to one of the shops. Professor Sinistra volunteered to cover both the astronomy instruments shop and a leather goods store, which sold book bags and wand holsters as well as the required gloves, and was conveniently located next door. Professor Snape had already called dibs on the Potioneering Supply Center, surprising no one who had met him. According to Professor Sinistra, none of the other professors really cared which shops they supervised, though it probably would be better if a witch were to cover Ollivanders’.

Neither Granger had a problem with this, as they both agreed with Mary that the old man was incredibly creepy. They did, however, have a bit of a row between themselves over which of them would be better suited to handle the bookstore part of the trip. Dan won, with the argument that the bookstore would be far too crowded and hectic for the sort of conversations he knew his wife wanted to have with the other muggle parents. They reported this decision to Professor Sinistra, who said she would make the other witches sort out who was to take care of which of the other stores, and let Emma know what was left.

As it transpired, the Muggle Studies professor ended up with robes, the Arithmancy professor with trunks and stationary, and the Deputy Head was to be stuck with the wandmaker for the day, leaving the pet shops for Emma. The new muggleborns and their families would proceed more or less in a circle around the Alley, moving from one to the next, armed with copies of Professor Sinistra’s map.

The enormous party would assemble for lunch – Professor Burbage had made reservations for them at a popular café called the Glass Octopus – and for ice cream at Fortescue’s midway through the afternoon (with an option on the tea shop next door for the adults), in addition to the initial meet-up at the Leaky Cauldron. They discussed a check-in at the end of the day as well, but decided that it would be more trouble than it was worth – the chaperones would simply have to check that whichever group they ended up with last had everything they needed.

Professor Vector had enchanted and owled anti-muggle-repelling amulets for all of the parents and siblings at the Grangers’ suggestion, so that they could meet inside the Leaky, rather than as an enormous mob on the pavement in front of it. The Grangers had acquired their own such amulets weeks prior, and found that they dispelled the disreputable air that hung around the pub in a way that simply holding the girls’ hands as they passed through the door didn’t. Professor Burbage had volunteered to arrive early and wait outside to direct anyone who seemed lost.

That left only the decision of which group the girls would accompany. They wouldn’t need to go to most of the stores the professors were supervising, but they did want to go to the pet stores – Mary was considering getting an owl of her own, and Hermione wanted a cat – and they both needed new books and quills and ink. They needed new robes and apparently shirtwaists and ties as well, but they wanted to go back to Peaseblossom and Puck’s instead of Madam Malkin’s.

Hermione thought that at thirteen and nearly fourteen, she and Mary should be allowed to explore the Alley by themselves. Lilian was to meet them at the Leaky Cauldron, and the three of them were definitely capable of buying robes by themselves. Unfortunately, as Dan pointed out, they were not necessarily capable of fighting off escaped convicts by themselves, especially given Mary’s impaired arm, and the Professor, when Mary owled her, was not keen on the idea of her ward wandering the alley alone or with only muggle supervision, disguise or no disguise. She had sent back a rather short message in return (on Wednesday), that she would see what she could do, but with no further elaboration, the girls’ plans were stuck in limbo.

Eventually Mary threw up her hands at the whole mess, and said that if she couldn’t get what she needed, she might as well not go at all. The Grangers wouldn’t hear of her not participating, though – Hermione because she wanted the younger girl’s company and the adults because they had promised to return her to the Professor at the Leaky – so she resigned herself to tagging along, despite the fact that it seemed she was not to actually get any of her own shopping done, except maybe picking up that dicta-quill.

Between Hermione’s anxiety, Mary’s dissatisfaction with the unresolved plan, and the irritation still simmering between the doctors Granger, all of them were only too pleased to make an early night of it.

###  Saturday, 14 August 1993

#### Diagon Alley

The Grangers, with Mary in tow, arrived early to the Leaky Cauldron, at barely a quarter past eight. Professor Burbage was not yet waiting outside, so they went in and ordered tea to pass the time. The five professors arrived in short order, accompanied by three children who had to be new first-years and a phenomenally clumsy young woman with one green eye and one blue.

Professor Burbage slipped outside immediately, while Professors Vector and Snape, neither of whom were what might be considered morning people, excused themselves to threaten the barman for coffee. Professor Sinistra went with them to make sure they didn’t actually follow through on their threats, cheerily telling her friends that they should have followed her lead, and just not gone to bed at all.

After exchanging greetings with the elder Grangers and expressing her appalled horror at Mary’s new haircut (“It’s a disguise, Aunt Minnie! Call me Elizabeth!”), the Professor introduced her ducklings as Kelsey Jefferson, John Shaw, Christine Wright and Nymphadora Tonks.

The first three were indeed new firsties, and seemed very reluctant to talk to any of them, clumping together shyly behind the Professor. Nymphadora flushed pink, all the way to the tips of her short, spiky, formerly brown hair, when she was introduced, and asked them to please just call her ‘Tonks.’

“Any relation to Andromeda Tonks?” Emma had asked.

“Yeah, she’s my mum. You know her?” The young woman looked surprised.

“She’s been helping me with a couple of projects. But that would make you the auror-in-training she’s so proud of, right?”

Tonks had flushed again at that, but nodded nevertheless as the Professor took over the conversation, explaining her presence.

“Indeed. I’ve asked Trainee Auror Tonks to accompany Ma – Elizabeth today to act as her security. I don’t doubt your abilities as chaperones, you understand, but if Black’s got a wand…” she explained delicately.

Both doctors Granger nodded at this. The Professor seemed relieved that Dan hadn’t started yelling at her about anti-muggle prejudice again.

“We’ve taken precautions as well, Professor!” Hermione fairly bounced in place as she swept Mary’s fringe aside to show that her scar was invisible.

“How…?”

“Muggle makeup, yeah?” Tonks guessed, peering closely at Mary’s face. “And muggle hair color, too. Smart, that. Glamours are easy to break. Moody would approve.”

“Who’s Moody?” Mary asked, edging away from the witch’s scrutiny.

“Senior Auror Alastor Moody. My mentor for training. CONSTANT VIGILANCE! It’s kind of his thing.”

“Erm… okay, then. There’s one other part of the disguise,” she added, ignoring the excitable auror cadet. “I’m going by the name Elizabeth Granger today.”

“Granger, Granger, Granger,” her bodyguard repeated. “Does that mean you lot are all Grangers, too?” she asked suddenly, drawing attention to the fact that introductions had only been half-completed, just in time for the other professors to return, steaming mugs in hand.

Dan, Emma, and Hermione introduced themselves (the former to the professors as well as the auror-in-training), and after a quick explanation of metamorphmagi – witches and wizards who could change their appearance at will – Tonks assumed a disguise of her own, her suddenly-chestnut hair growing longer and curlier to match Hermione’s and her skin darkening to a tone halfway between Mary’s impossible-to-tan paleness and the warm brown Hermione had brought back from France, while her eyes became a brilliant green. “There!” she said happily, “Now I can tag along without looking out of place!”

Hermione, who had been debating the likelihood of this idea’s success with Mary over the course of the older girl’s transformation, immediately announced, “I have a better idea!”

All of the adults stared at her momentarily, surprised at the sudden outburst, though most of the professors were quickly distracted by the arrival of a woman who looked about as old as Tonks and Catherine, and a boy who couldn’t possibly be her son, both dressed in muggle clothing. “Um, excuse me,” the young woman said, “but is this the Hogwarts group?”

“Go on,” Emma said, raising an eyebrow at her excitable daughter.

(“Indeed,” Snape drawled, looking down his nose scornfully at the woman’s jeans and worn trainers. She glared at him, and Professor Sinistra said, “Oh, shut up and drink your coffee, Snape. Yes, this is the Hogwarts group. Aurora Sinistra, Astronomy Professor.”)

“ _Well_ , since Tonks is here to keep an eye out for trouble,” the auror trainee gave them a mock-salute, “and we – Mary, Lilian, and I – don’t really need to go to all the shops, we could do our shopping with Tonks, and jump between groups whenever we wanted!”

(“How do you do? I’m Fiona Campbell, and this is my brother, Morgan.”)

“ _And_ we could go to Peaseblossom and Puck’s,” Mary added, “and spend more time looking at the animals and going to the bookstore even though it’s just Emma and Dan there.”

“ _Pleeeeease_?” Hermione begged, fixing her father with her best puppy-dog eyes.

He caved, as expected. “It’s alright with me if it’s alright with the ladies?” he said, nodding at Tonks, who would have to take full responsibility for the girls all day.

“Fine by me!” she said cheerily.

Emma nodded, and the Professor looked a bit uncomfortable, but, after a moment’s hesitation, gave her consent as well, just in time to greet the Campbells before the arrival of a family of three.

“I’ve told you Ophie, it was classified! I couldn’t tell you!” the man hissed at the woman as they entered Mary’s earshot.

“John Fredrick Taylor, I am your _wife_! If you know something that affects our son or our family, I expect you to _tell_ me, classified or not!”

The boy cleared his throat. “Mum! Dad!”

The Grangers introduced themselves as they awaited the next arrivals. Mary eavesdropped as she could, listening to Hermione ask Tonks questions about metamorphmagi with one ear while the Taylors, Campbells, and Grangers got acquainted in the other.

The young wizards, Morgan Campbell and Patrick Taylor, seemed to become instant friends, based only on their shared age and recent introduction to the wizarding world, and pulled each other off to the side of the group, discussing their favorite comic books and TV shows. The adult Taylors ceased arguing only long enough to introduce themselves before Ophelia returned to haranguing John about his work – which he claimed was as assistant to a minor government official.

Lilian arrived next, practically jumping out of the floo, and nearly bowling Mary and Hermione over in her enthusiasm to catch them up on her trip to Spain before realizing that Professors Snape, Sinistra, and McGonagall were watching her, at which point she went very red and greeted them properly.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose and excused himself to fetch more coffee, muttering about how it was far too early to deal with students, despite the fact that he regularly taught eight o’clock classes at Hogwarts.

Mary and Hermione introduced Lilian to Tonks and outlined their hastily constructed plan for the day, which she agreed to, with the addition of a trip to a Quality Quidditch Supplies, because she needed a new pair of chaser’s gloves.

While they had been talking, they missed the arrival of three more families: a group of four with two daughters, only one of whom was old enough for Hogwarts; another group of four with a boy and a girl who both looked like they were about Hogwarts age; and a family of six with two boys and two girls – the Murrays, Mary thought. If she remembered the list correctly, they were the only family who were large enough to warrant their own group.

Two mothers arrived almost at the same time, a harassed, blowsy-looking woman called Mary MacBrady with her daughter Lorna, and Maura Wilson, a divorcee in a sharp suit, with her son David Rhees.

While Lorna MacBrady and the other children, whose names Mary hadn’t caught, seemed pleased enough to join the established cliques – the boys and girls, with the exception of Professor McGonagall’s Ducklings, had separated themselves, whether by accident or design – to chatter about their experiences with this new world of magic and their favorite muggle hobbies, David instead approached the trio of older girls. He made no move to introduce himself, but stood close enough to look like he was part of their group, shooting what Mary thought might be envious looks at the Ducklings, still lurking quietly out of the way, near the Professor.

“Hey, Rhees!” Lilian called after a moment, “Don’t you know it’s rude to eavesdrop?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “It’s Dave. And I’m not eavesdropping, I’m just trying not to look antisocial.”

All the girls laughed at this. “You could try actually not _being_ antisocial,” Hermione suggested. “There’s a whole group of boys over there you could talk to.”

“Nah, they’re talking about X-Men. Not really my thing.”

“What is your thing?” Mary asked, slightly intrigued by the boy who didn’t want to _look_ antisocial. She wondered if this was how the girl who said to _call_ her Elizabeth had seemed to Morgana on her own first visit to the Alley.

The boy shrugged. “Dunno. Not comics. Are you all Hogwarts students?” he asked, looking interested for the first time since he joined them.

“Yeah, what did you think? They’re just letting a bunch of muggle teenagers hang around?” Lilian replied. “I’m Lilian Moon, Slytherin. This is Elizabeth, and Hermione Granger. Liz is in Slytherin with me, and Hermione’s a Ravenclaw. We’re all third years.”

“What’s… Slytherin? And Raven… Raven _claw_ , did you say?”

Hermione’s impromptu lecture on the school houses was cut short by Professor McGonagall calling for their attention. Everyone else had apparently arrived, their group having expanded from the corner where the Grangers had originally been sitting to fill almost all the seats in the thankfully-otherwise-nearly-empty pub.

Professor Burbage was standing next to Professor McGonagall with a scroll in hand, and proceeded to read off the groups, ending with: “David Rhees, Patrick Taylor, and Samuel Watson, you and your families will be with me!”

Then there was a two-minute period of absolute chaos as the families sorted themselves out, all talking at once and trying to shift positions to stand nearer their designated chaperone. One of the younger siblings, a child no older than three, was separated from her parents and began to cry. Lilian picked her up and stood on a chair to ask who she belonged to, just as her parents must have noticed she was gone and asked Professor Vector for help. The arithmancy professor put a mass silencing charm on the group so she could make herself heard saying, “Anyone seen --” Professor McGonagall, however, almost immediately dispelled the charm… which was not quite in time to stop parents from at least three different families panicking. When their voices returned, they were screaming in various tones of anger and fear.

Professor McGonagall pulled Professor Vector aside to harangue her for her decision, either behind her own privacy charm, or too quietly for Mary to overhear as Professors Burbage and Sinistra soothed the frightened parents. Professor Snape, Mary noted, was nursing what had to be his third cup of coffee and silently observing the chaos in a generally unhelpful way.

A boy of about seven dragged his older brother over to Lilian’s chair and tugged on her robes, calling up to her, “That’s my sister! Kelly!”

The little girl looked down and immediately began struggling to reach the boys, unbalancing Lilian, who very nearly fell off the chair before she could set the child down.

“Thanks,” the older boy shouted over the din as the girl threw herself at the younger one.

“No problem,” Lilian grinned.

All of them startled badly as Professor Sinistra set off a noise like a gunshot, and silence fell over the crowd again, save for the wailing of a baby and Professor Snape’s extraordinarily sarcastic, “If you’re all _quite_ finished…”

“Kelly! She’s gone!” the girl’s mother said, and her father added in a much more exasperated tone, “Now the boys’ve run off, too. Jack! Henry! Where are you?”

“Over here, dad!” the older boy called back, and led his siblings through the crowd.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly. “Right, then. We’re headed up the high street to the bank – large, white marble building, colonnaded. Can’t miss it. Follow on, now!” Apparently she had decided that it would be for the best to just soldier on.

They proceeded through the tunnel into the Alley and turned toward Gringott’s. Mary couldn’t wait to get away from the crowd of first-years and their parents. From what she recalled, there were only about forty of them, but as they paraded through Diagon, with parents trying desperately to maintain their hold on small children even as their own heads swiveled this way and that, drawn by the strange sights and sounds of its wonders, and professors putting various degrees of effort toward keeping everyone on track, she would have sworn there were at least twice that many.  

At Gringott’s, Lilian cut to the front of the line to make a withdrawal while Professors McGonagall and Vector and the Drs. Granger explained the exchange rate (still five pounds to a galleon) and how to deal with goblins (politely). She returned, jingling her coin purse as the first group of anxious-looking parents approached the tellers. The goblins were grinning in a way Mary suspected was calculated to make their customers nervous, intentionally barring their very pointy teeth.

“Okay!” the brassy-haired Slytherin said breathlessly, rejoining her friends, “I’m ready!”

Hermione laughed. “Let me just tell mum we’re leaving.”

“I should tell the Professor, too, I guess,” Mary admitted, looking around to see where she had gone.

A scant minute later, the three girls, shadowed by their attentive trainee-auror guard, burst out of the main doors of the bank, cheering their freedom. After several minutes visiting the nearest kiosks just because they could, they made their way through the crowded streets to Mary’s favorite tailor shop.

The hobs were not pleased with her cast. After she explained that she would need the robes fitted as though she didn’t have it, because it would be coming off as soon as she got back to Hogwarts, they spent twenty minutes arguing amongst themselves about, Mary presumed, the best way to fit her. Eventually, the lead hob decided that they would mirror the right and left sides, and slice open all of the right sleeves while they adjusted the fit. They would then repair all of the right sleeves. There would be an extra fee for the inconvenience, which, Mary hastened to assure the small creatures, she would be only too happy to pay. Their work was amazing – she didn’t mind the extra charge if it meant she didn’t have to go back to Madam Malkin’s off-the-rack uniforms.

The only bad part about the hobs’ method of tailoring, as far as Mary was concerned, was that she had to try on each garment individually. Madam Malkin’s assistants had pinned one robe or shirt to fit, then created duplicates to the pattern of the first. Unfortunately, in addition to her new school robes, which were cut lower in the front to reveal the collar of her shirtwaist and her tie, and fitted more closely in the bodice, she also needed several new casual robes (for it was not appropriate for a witch of thirteen to wander about in her underthings), the shirtwaists themselves, and undershirts, as well as new bloomers, skirts, and, of all embarrassing things, bras. (Personally she didn’t think she needed the last yet, but Emma and Catherine had both made comments to the effect that she would need one very soon, so she had best get them now.) She supposed she was lucky that her hob-made clothes would grow with her, so she could get them now and not worry about them for the rest of the year, but that didn’t mean she was looking forward to stripping in front of the little creatures, or, since they were helping with her cast, Hermione and Lilian. At least Tonks had agreed to stand guard outside the door, after establishing that the girls were the only humans in the shop.

Thankfully, the only comment either of her friends made about her skinny frame was to remark on the tattoo which had appeared during her birthday ritual, and ask whether she had found out anything about it yet. The answer, of course, was no – she hadn’t even given it much thought since owling the two of them and discovering that neither had had their own strange symbol appear during their rituals, aside from occasionally being surprised to see it in the mirror. Hermione gave her a reproving look for her apparent indifference, and said, with a sigh, that she would look into it.

On seeing the bloomers the hobs insisted were appropriate for a girl her age (which actually looked like bloomers, with fitted cuffs and waists that laced closed, instead of just the loose, pajama-style trousers they had given her the year before), Mary insisted on three pairs of actual trousers as well. The trousers were not so terribly different, save that they reached her ankles instead of the top of her calves, and felt substantial enough that she wouldn’t feel under-dressed wearing them without robes.

Slytherin crests for the school robes, two green-striped ties (one spare, on Hermione’s recommendation, in case the first was dirty or misplaced), and nametags affixed to everything, as well as a stack of spare nametags to attach to her muggle clothing, completed Mary’s order. Watching the crests and nametags attach themselves was particularly interesting – under the hobs’ magic, the patches seemed to _root_ themselves to the robes, and the thread to embroider her name moved like ink, spreading tiny black tendrils out into the white of the tags, spelling ME Potter over and over.

She successfully hid her wince on realizing exactly how much the extra fee for inconveniencing the hobs amounted to, and waited patiently while Hermione and Lilian had their own fittings. Thankfully the hobs were able to do them simultaneously, now that they were done helping Mary. She watched, still fascinated, as the tailors worked their magic over her friends, and with a good deal of embarrassment as they were fitted for their own undergarments: Hermione, taller than Mary, but a good deal shorter than Lilian, looked very curvy and grown-up in comparison to herself, and Lilian, who, like Mary, was still rather flat and boyish, had visible _muscles_ in her abs, as well as her arms and legs.

Lilian, predictably, called Hermione chubby, and the latter responded with a quick crack about pumping iron over the summer. Lilian rather uncharacteristically took this at face value, admitting pseudo-casually that yeah, she might have been working out a bit. She was determined to make the starting line-up for Quidditch this year.

Discussions of Quidditch and whether they would even be able to play, given the punishment Snape still held over their heads, carried them through the rest of their fitting, and a stop at Daily’s, the cobbler, too. Mary’s boots weren’t in nearly as bad of shape as they had been the year before, since she now had other shoes to swap with them, but they were still her favorite, and it showed in their wear.

Their last stop before lunch was Scrivener’s. All three of them needed new notebooks and fresh rolls of parchment, replacement ink and quills, and in Mary and Hermione’s cases, new nibs for their fountain pens. Both of them had learned to manage a quill over the past two years, but pens were still more convenient, so far as they were concerned. Mary had also decided, about two days into this whole broken arm business, that she desperately needed a dicta-quill, if only so she would be able to write Hermione and Lilian for the last two weeks of summer. She spent several long minutes staring at the different options before selecting one with a sleek, black-lacquered “quill” and a silver nib (despite Lilian’s suggestion that she take the acid-green ‘kwik-quotes’ version). It was more expensive than she had hoped, but it would be worth it to be able to keep in touch, especially if she could set it to take notes for her in Binns’ class as well.

Professor Vector had had a new group of muggle families arrive just before the girls, so once their decisions had been made, they were able to spend the rest of their time talking animatedly about school houses (Hermione) and eavesdropping on the muggle parents (Lilian and Mary).

The Slytherins had more fun, Mary thought, though she suspected their know-it-all friend might not have agreed. They learned that Susan Angau, Sam Watson’s aunt and guardian, was a pediatrician and what Lilian called a skeptic – the sort of person who refused to believe that magic was real, even when it was staring them right in the face. She kept muttering to the Taylors about how illogical it all was, and wondering if it wasn’t too late to move to the Americas and get away from all this weirdness, which Mary thought boded ill for her nephew. Sam seemed unconcerned, however, marveling at the wonders of magic with Patrick, delightedly pointing out strange sights as they caught his eye. The Taylors, for their part, seemed to be too wrapped up in their own argument to give Ms. Angau the slightest notice.

Dave was the one who had cornered Hermione, asking her to finish what she had been telling him earlier about the Houses. Ms. Wilson, his mother, had joined them after a few minutes, asking rapid-fire, practical questions about things like laundry services, how many classes were held per day, and how many hours per week, what kind of extra-curricular activities were available, and whether the hospital wing did an adequate job of treating minor illnesses. When Hermione suggested that perhaps the professors or her parents might be able to answer these questions better, the woman waved a hand impatiently. “Nonsense. I want a student’s opinion.” Hermione had fairly glowed with pleasure – she was so rarely sought out for her opinion, especially by adults – and began rattling off the answers at once.

The only word to describe lunch was _chaotic_.

The restaurant had reserved their entire upstairs for the party of fifty-five. The adults had three tables, and had split themselves into two camps – those who were interested in the magical world, and those who were not. Those who were interested were eagerly questioning their chaperones while they waited for their food to arrive. Dan looked to be nearly as much in his element as Hermione, as he chattered animatedly about all the things he had learned about magic in the past two years.

The kids had four tables – girls, boys, little siblings, and third-years. Tonks, who had been remarkably stealthy all morning for someone who had managed to trip over her own feet twice and elbow an elderly wizard’s toast into his face between the Leaky Cauldron’s floo and the table where Mary and the Grangers had been waiting, had elected to sit with the girls. Fiona Campbell, a university student who was acting as her half-brother’s guardian, asked to join them as well, probably because Tonks was the only person in the crowd anywhere near her age.

Kelsey Jefferson and Christine Wright, two of McGonagall’s ducklings, also joined the third-years, though they hardly spoke, obviously uncomfortable with the crowd of strangers. Mary could easily understand that, having been in a similar position only two years before, when Hermione alone was a bit too much to handle. She accordingly distracted their older table-mates from trying to draw the Ducklings into conversation, and was rewarded with a grateful smile from the Jefferson girl.

The two older girls, with a few questions from Mary, managed to strike up a lively conversation about their relative courses of study, Tonks seemingly very interested in what exactly a computer did, and Fiona equally interested in the examinations Tonks was studying for at the end of summer. To Mary’s complete lack of surprise, the auror trainee was concerned about Stealth and Tracking, but said she had Concealment and Disguise in the bag. Mary, for one, found this conversation fascinating – she knew almost nothing about computers _or_ how the wizarding equivalent of police worked, but Hermione and Lilian were quickly distracted by arguing with each other about whether they should visit the bookstore or the Quidditch supply center next.

Around the time the adults started trying to divvy up the bill, the persistent Dave slipped away from his own table and took up the empty place at the older girls’. Much to Mary’s surprise, his target this time was not Hermione, but Mary and Lilian. “You guys are Slytherins, right?”

“Yeah,” Mary said, uncertain of where this opening gambit might lead.

“So that means you’re the practical ones, right?”

Hermione snorted with laughter, but Lilian cheerfully said, “More practical than Jeanie, anyway. Why?”

“Well…” the boy hesitated.

“Well what?” Mary asked.

“WhatdoIneedtoknowbeforeIgettoschool?” he asked in a single, rushed breath.

“Merlin’s beard,” Lilian giggled, “It’s like Creevey all over again.”

“Take a breath and try that again,” Hermione advised.

Dave did. “What do I need to know before I get to school? Hermione’s told me about the houses and teachers and classes, but… what do I need to know so I’ll fit in?”

Mary and Lilian exchanged a look. Lilian shrugged, and Mary said, “Why not?”

The older Slytherin sighed. “Alright, kid, here’s the deal. The first thing you need to know that no one will tell you is that there’s this thing called the Truce…”

About halfway through Mary’s gleeful, third-person skewering of the Mary Potter legend, Professor McGonagall announced that it was time to go. This was just as well, because it meant that Dave had no chance to ask why Lilian, Hermione, and Tonks were unsuccessfully trying to hide their amusement at one of the most important tragedies in recent wizarding history. They promised to tell the boy more over ice cream as he was dragged away by his mother.

Hermione had won the debate about where to go next with the argument that if she had a new book to read, she wouldn’t be nagging them to hurry up while they were in the Quidditch shop, so the girls headed off to the bookstore.

Mary was considering the rather crumpled booklist she had retrieved from the depths of a pocket, comparing it to Lilian’s. Most of their books were the same, for their shared core classes, Runes and Care of Magical Creatures. Lilian also needed Unfogging the Future for Divination, and Mary’s list had Numerology and Grammatica, Algebra for Arithmancy, and Arithmantic Logic. Hermione didn’t have her official list, but said that she had decided to get all of the books for all of the courses, arguing that there was no reason she couldn’t read up on the other subjects, even if she wasn’t able to take all of the classes.

The other girls had no luck in getting her to admit which subjects she had finally had to drop, and gave up pestering her when they reached the shop. Their sudden distraction could be attributed to the new and unusual window display. The fancifully bound and illuminated books which generally graced the window had been replaced by a large, iron cage containing about a hundred copies of a green and brown book. The mad things were flapping their covers wildly, grappling with each other and trying to bite curious patrons through the bars. A shop attendant was watching the children carefully, and smacking their hands when they reached for the vicious books.

Lilian sniggered and wondered aloud when Flourish and Blotts started carrying books that clearly belonged down Knockturn Alley. Neither Hermione nor Mary could answer, though Hermione noted that the cage definitely hadn’t been there a month prior.

The first five books on their list, for Charms, DADA, Transfiguration, and Potions, were bundled together and easily located at a display near the registers, but they would have to hunt for the required books for electives. They headed toward the Divination section first, and after a bit of looking, found two copies of the required text on high shelf. Hermione flipped through it, saying things like, “Ooh, look, there’s a section on scrying,” and “Goodness, I hope we’re not really going to do _that_!” as she trailed the Slytherins to the Runes shelves.

The Runes texts were easier to find, a whole shelf of them located right at eye level, but they spent nearly twice as long in that section, anyway, looking at introductory manuals for enchanting and wardcrafting. Neither of the Slytherins had forgotten that they had only one year to figure out how to ward their bedrooms, and it was rumored that Professor Babbling was not very big on the practical side of Runes until NEWT level.

Two of the Arithmancy books were easy to locate, but the third evaded them for nearly twenty minutes before they found a copy tucked in a corner, behind a much larger tome. Once they knew what it looked like, it was much easier to spot others, lurking in odd spots along the shelves. Mary wished, not for the first time, that the bookstore would invest in a better system of organization.

The Muggle Studies section was organized by color, for instance. Hermione located that class’s books quickly enough, but that was probably more due to the pathetically small size of the section than their navy and lavender covers.

Finally, the only book left on their lists was the Monster Book of Monsters. They searched high and low through the Care of Magical Creatures and Magizoology sections, paying special attention to the larger books, but when half an hour’s hunting failed to locate it, they turned to a shopkeeper for help. He went a bit pale as he led them back to the front of the store and the iron cage.

“We need three, Carl,” he said to the poor wizard guarding the cage.

Carl blanched and cursed his manager under his breath, but he grabbed a knobbly cane and carefully approached the door.

The books went wild. Mary thought they might be able to sense his fear, but she was happy that she wouldn’t have to fetch her book herself. She was beginning to worry about Care of Magical Creatures. There was a new professor this year, and though she didn’t know who it was, whoever had assigned this book had to be even crazier than old Kettleburn.

The shopkeeper kicked viciously at the books as they tried to bite his ankles and hands. He batted one of them across the cage hard enough to (apparently) knock it out, and it was set upon by its fellows, allowing him the distraction needed to swipe up three copies, pinning them closed against his chest with both arms.

“Get the door, Gus!” he shouted at his coworker, who fumbled with the latch. “Gus! Let me out of here right now!” He kicked away yet another book, as the mass of them tore into the fallen copy, loose pages flying everywhere. “Shite!” He hadn’t been paying attention, and one copy had managed to propel itself into the air, latching onto the poor man’s arse. “Get it oooooff!”

Gus finally had the door open, and took the cane to whack the offending book, slamming the door closed as soon as Carl escaped. “Come on, then, up to the counter,” he said, sounding exhausted. Gus was left to take up his place guarding the Monster books. The three copies in Carl’s arms were still struggling.

“Dorothy, get these girls rung up asap so I can hand these off,” he said, nodding at the girls’ armloads of books. She did as he asked, quickly totaling their purchases. Once their other books were bagged and they were each able to hold their own book closed, Gus tied them shut with copious amounts of twine, all the while complaining about publishers who shipped wild books loose and owners who refused to invest in individual cages. Finally, he warned the girls that the longer the books were tied shut, the angrier they would get. He had been advising everyone who bought a copy to head over to Eeylops and get an owl cage to keep it in.

Since they were planning to visit the pet stores anyway, later in the afternoon, the girls agreed to take this under advisement. Their actual shopping done, Mary and Hermione browsed the new releases for a few minutes, ignoring Lilian’s pleas to go to the Quidditch store. She shut up when Dan appeared out of nowhere, asking how their day was going, in favor of complaining about their vicious new textbooks, but when Raven Anderson and her step-father Charlie joined them to ask why all these books were so old-fashioned, she took the opportunity to drag her friends away, calling “Bye, Mr. Granger,” over her shoulder.

As they slipped through the crowd, Mary heard Dan say, “…it’s called ‘ _Why parchment? A Guide to Wizarding Anachronisms_.’ I’ll ask Brian if they’ve got another copy…”

About halfway to Quality Quidditch Supplies, which had an enormous crowd around its display window, Hermione remembered that she had agreed to pick up a few things for the twins. She ducked into Brown’s Apothecary without giving Lilian a chance to object. Mary and Lilian, both of whom were now eager to see what was going on at the Quidditch shop, followed reluctantly as she meandered around the store, poking at different ingredients and holding them up to the light. She even smelled a batch of frog spawn, before glaring at the shopkeeper and demanding to know if _that_ was what he considered _fresh_. Fortunately, the man at the counter seemed more amused than offended by the thirteen-year-old witch glaring down her nose at him, and pointed her toward a different barrel altogether with a wink and a nod. After that, he and Hermione dickered over prices for nearly fifteen minutes before coming to an agreement.

By the time the girls left the Apothecary, Hermione had half a dozen packets of magically sealed, stasis-charmed ingredients, and they had only seven minutes to get back to Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor, which meant they definitely didn’t have enough time to get to Quality Quidditch Supplies and have a look-see. Mary and Lilian were rather put out, and refused to speak to Hermione all through their break. After telling them at length how immature they were behaving, Hermione stomped off to talk to the Hallinans – the family with Hogwarts-aged twins – with her father, while Mary and Lilian gave Dave a crash course in Things Not to Do at Hogwarts, beginning with “Don’t call older students by their first names,” and “Don’t raise your hand in class,” and running all the way through, “Don’t try to sneak a dragon off the top of the astronomy tower at midnight.”

That last bit of advice had a very curious Tonks inquiring as to what the girls got up to at school, and necessitated a recounting (in hushed voices, so as not to distress the muggle parents) of the story of the Norbert the female dragon and Hagrid’s ill-fated attempts to mother her. Tonks had seemed rather wary and appalled at first, but by the time they described Professor Snape’s reaction to the whole situation (after looking around cautiously to ensure he wasn’t behind them), she was nearly doubled over laughing. “Oh, Merlin, that’s hilarious. Did you ever owl Charlie after? He’d have got a kick out of it! I can just see old Snape taking points for getting caught. And _Malfoy_ , Morgan and Mordred, I can just imagine his pointy little face, getting told off by his Head of House like that! Got to wonder if he told Narcissa…” Dave just listened with an expression caught somewhere between complete incredulity and wide-eyed awe.

In short order, the groups were re-formed, and headed off in different directions. Hermione rejoined her friends, following along as they finally reached the Quidditch shop. Lilian grabbed her gloves, and then she and Mary joined the crowd of young wizards and witches clamoring around the newest display model broom in the store: the _Firebolt_.

It was gorgeous, the handle a pale, golden ash, carved to perfection and polished sleek. The tail was made up of individually shaped birch twigs, only slightly redder than the handle, bound in place by bands of gold, folded and curved around to create a perfectly aerodynamic brush. It was, hands down, the most beautiful thing Mary had ever seen. Best of all, it claimed an acceleration of 150 mph in ten seconds. She could only _dream_ of moving that fast. Her Nimbus 2001 normally topped out at around half that speed, though she was certain that she had broken 110 in a Suicide Dive last spring (a feat which she had only accomplished by accelerating straight _down_ from 500 meters, and which Flint had forbidden her to ever try again).

The Irish International Quidditch team was rumored to have bought a full set of them for their World Cup bid. Mary hoped they would make it through. She planned to go see the final, which would be held almost exactly a year from now somewhere in Britain, and it would be brilliant to see a whole team of Firebolts in action. She and Lilian were happily debating the merits of having all your players on the same type of broom when Hermione finally interrupted them.

“You’ve been staring at this thing for over half an hour. Can we _go_ yet?”

“It’s not a _thing_!” the Slytherins chorused, as half the customers in the shop turned to look at their friend incredulously.

“This _broom_ , then. Whatever.”

With much sighing, the girls left the shop. Mary didn’t have the heart to inquire after the price. She was certain she could afford it, but it would probably empty her whole trust vault. The Nimbus had been expensive enough, and it wasn’t anywhere near the quality of the Firebolt. It would be better to just avoid the temptation.

The girls caught up with Emma and her group at the Magical Menagerie, as Emma finished explaining to Mr. and Mrs. Moore the wizarding post system, and the pros and cons of the different pets allowed at Hogwarts. The children were already off, looking at crup puppies and puffskeins and a vast array of kittens.

The Grangers had agreed that at nearly-fourteen, with two full years of classes under her hat, Hermione was now old enough to take care of a pet, and had given their permission for their daughter to obtain a cat. She gravitated at once to the few adult cats in the shop, claiming that she had no patience for kittens. Lilian said she was crazy.

“I’m a dog person through and through, Jeanie, and even I think these guys are adorable,” she teased, playing with a piebald bit of fluff and a spare bootlace someone had left in their cage.

Hermione just shook her head. “I want a cat that’s grown-up and smart enough to be a good familiar. Part-kneazle, maybe, if I could find one.”

At that, the witch at the counter, who had been shamelessly listening to their conversation, interrupted, saying that she had just the cat. His name was Crookshanks. He was an enormous, bow-legged, ginger beast with a squashed, grumpy-looking face. He walked right up to Hermione when she held out her hand and butted against it, purring loudly. Ten minutes later, they were leaving the store with Crookshanks in a basket.

Their last stop for the day was Eeylops, the Owl Emporium. It was just next-door from the Menagerie, and the last group of kids and their parents, the Murray family, had already moved in to explore it, quietly approaching the softly hooting birds and questioning the attendant about their training and care, while Emma discussed whether it was really worth it to get an owl with Mr. Murray. The answer, of course, was yes. Emma and Dan had decided that with as many letters as they were sending lately, they actually needed a second one.

Mary found a medium-sized female tawny that nibbled curiously at her fingertips, and was quite gentle and affectionate when Mary held out her left arm as a perch, gripping just hard enough to steady herself, mindful of her talons. She carefully fluttered up to Mary’s shoulder and began preening her hair, to Hermione and Lilian’s amusement.

After paying for the owl (and her cage, a box of treats, a set of thongs to tie letters to her ankles, and three extra cages for the Monster books), the girls headed back to the Leaky Cauldron to wait for the other groups and debate names for her.

Hermione suggested mythological names, like Pallas and Arianrhod, while Lilian listed off common messenger-related names, like Gabriella, Hermia, and Angelica. Tonks offered up what seemed like all of the Roman empresses and half of the minor Greek goddesses before they settled on Eirene, a goddess of peace. When the girls asked how she knew so many Classical names, the auror cadet glowered and said that if they had been called ‘Nymphadora,’ they would have spent a lot of time thinking about changing it too, which they all had to admit was very true.

Shortly after the decision was reached, Professor McGonagall rejoined them, seeing her group out the front of the pub with a reminder that they would receive a letter regarding the train in a few weeks’ time. The Professor looked more than ready to go home. Mary didn’t blame her. If she had had to deal with Ollivander all day, she would have given up long ago. Dan’s group was next. He was escorting the Moores, a girl named Meghan Murphy, and McGonagall’s male Duckling, John Shaw. The Professor bustled off to reclaim her charge and, presumably, to ensure that the unaccompanied Meghan knew how she was getting home. It might have been Mary’s imagination, but she thought the older witch seemed pleased to get away from Ms. Angau, who was still denying the magic all around her.

Several groups arrived, then, in quick succession, Professors Sinistra, Vector, and Burbage obviously having escorted their charges back to the Owl Emporium to pick up their birds, since each group had at least one owl with them that Mary definitely did not recall having made an appearance at lunch. The families thanked the professors with varying degrees of sincerity and their children – even the younger ones – swore to call each other, with the older ones grinning like loons and calling “See you at Hogwarts!” as they followed their parents out the front door.

Professor Snape came in next, in the middle of what sounded like a surprisingly civil conversation with Mrs. Hallinan about recent history in the wizarding world. Mary was instantly disappointed that she hadn’t been able to hear more of what he had been saying, because she’d had the impression that the Hallinans were not very impressed with the magical world, but also because she thought it must be either hilarious or seriously impressive to watch Snape explain Voldemort’s war to muggles, and she suddenly very much needed to know which.

Emma’s group was last, arriving just at half four, chattering amicably and admiring Kelsey Jefferson’s new owl. Fiona Campbell exchanged telephone numbers with Mr. Mitchell and reminded Tonks that she had promised to owl the muggle girl the next time she and her auror cadet friends were making a night of it in Town before she and her brother left. Maura Wilson had apparently only lingered to have a few more words with Emma. They exchanged what looked like business cards, and then Maura and Dave were on their way as well.

Finally it was down to the Grangers, Mary, Lilian, the professors and the ducklings. Lilian said her farewells and dived back through the floo to her parents’ house, and after a bit of discussion, Professor McGonagall and Mary accompanied the Grangers back to their car to fetch her trunk while the ducklings followed the other professors back to Hogwarts. It was duly shrunk, along with all Mary’s packages, and tucked into the Professor’s voluminous pockets, at which point Professor McGonagall decided it would be best not to attempt to side-along apparate both a child and an owl, so they trooped back to the Leaky to use the floo. Several very dizzy seconds later, they arrived at the Urquhart Mansion, where a very relieved Catherine was waiting.

The older girl did a double-take at Mary’s hair, and the Professor explained their plan of disguise as she emptied her pockets of Mary’s purchases. Catherine tisked, but said she was glad the plan had apparently succeeded. Finally, the Professor floo’d back to Hogwarts, and Mary was sent to settle her purchases and her now-ruffled owl in her room (with the help of the nursery elf, since she still couldn’t use her right arm).

It was, Mary thought, the longest day she had had in quite some time.


	7. Her Mother's Voice

###  Sunday, 29 August 1993

#### Hogwarts Express

The last two weeks of break passed phenomenally quickly. Thankfully, Mary was still excused from attending the horrible weekly tea parties. Her excuse was the stress of the lingering threat posed by Sirius Black, but really she just didn’t want to go. Lessons resumed (magic lessons being dead boring, as she was reduced to practicing left-handed wand-movements and the simplest of charms and jinxes _ad nauseam_ ) and there were a flurry of owls and appointments which led to a somewhat erratic schedule. The dicta-quill, Mary decided, was worth every knut. Dictating letters and essays was far faster than writing them by hand, even if she did have to spend a whole day attuning it to her speech patterns.

On the news front, Lilian had little to report, aside from her own boredom and longing for school to resume. Hermione, in contrast, was a wealth of information. She had overheard her parents saying that Professor McGonagall had mentioned something about taking over Mary’s muggle guardianship, which was terribly exciting. Mary could only assume that they hadn’t said anything to her about it because she was still being punished for her latest misadventure. She hoped they would do it. The Grangers would be much better guardians than the Dursleys.

There was bad news as well: The Ministry was refusing to reinstate Hermione’s special permission to use magic at home. She was less upset about this than she could have been, since the exemption was only for spells up to Grade 3, and she wouldn’t have wanted to practice them much longer anyway, but it was the principal of the thing. They had, at least, officially removed the count of underage magic from Hermione’s record, so that she was no longer in danger of official punishment if she slipped up and used her wand over the summer. Apparently she had been looking for books on freeform magic, anyway, because she wanted to be able to do magic undetectably. Emma had begun writing letters to Bill Weasley asking about the types of wards that would be necessary to placate the ministry’s security.

Hermione also informed Mary that she was starting a Muggleborn and Muggle-raised students group, and Mary had to join. Mary agreed, though she wasn’t sure exactly what such a group would do, aside, perhaps, from answering questions from younger students about how to get along in the magical world. She would have done that anyway, and wondered if her membership in the group would increase or decrease its popularity, given that her fame as the Girl Who Lived had now been somewhat tarnished by the title Heir of Slytherin. At Catherine’s direction, she had spent a few days at the beginning of the summer skimming through old Prophets to get a feel for her public reputation, and the reviews were mixed to say the least.

Finally, the older girl reported that she had found a wealth of information on magical tattooing, but none of it was anything like the process Mary had described, resulting in the Libra symbol over her breastbone. The Ravenclaw had moved on to looking at marks created through rituals, but everything she found was either very confusing or incredibly vague, with references to texts which the assistants at Flourish and Blotts informed her were restricted, available only in German, or out of print. Needless to say, it was very slow going.

On the appointment side of things, Mary was taken to St. Mungo’s for a thirteenth-year check-up (where she was pronounced healthy by the Healer, though she did look a bit askance at the scars Mary had accumulated in the past two years and the muggle cast); an oculist, who updated the prescription on Mary’s glasses and informed her that no, she could not just use magic to fix her eyes, at least not until they stopped growing worse, which they likely would in time; and to visit Gerald Fulton, her Office of Child Welfare Caseworker. She hadn’t been to see him in over a year, but she was able to assure him that (despite her broken arm) she was as happy and healthy as could be expected, and she had no problem with her current magical guardian. Professor McGonagall might be a bit distant and strict, but there was no one she would choose as her guardian instead (the only person she might consider would be Snape, and that would make their already complicated relationship even worse).

The last weekend before school started, Catherine took Mary back to Peaseblossom and Puck’s to be fitted for formal robes. These, she said, were the traditional thirteenth birthday gift from the family, which Mary should have received, but hadn’t, in the excitement surrounding Black’s escape, the rituals, and Mary’s subsequent attempt to run away. Mary was quite pleased to receive a birthday gift from the Urquharts and Aunt Minnie. If she had given it any thought at all in the chaotic whirl of emotions that had surrounded her birthday, she might have felt a bit slighted at the fact that they hadn’t given her one, but in truth, she had completely ignored it. She supposed, in hindsight, that two years wasn’t long enough to be used to people giving her gifts.

The hobs were not altogether pleased to see Mary and her cast again so soon, but they did not refuse the commission. By the end of the fitting, Mary almost wished they had. The outfit included not only stockings, bloomers, a skirt, an undershirt, an underrobe, an overrobe, and a very pretty, entirely ornamental belt, but an actual _corset_ made with dragon-bone, which was worn between the loose undershirt and the fitted underrobe, and forced Mary into an uncomfortably upright posture at all times.

It did, she admitted, give her a more womanly figure, but between the corset and the spindly high heels Catherine transfigured to go with the robes, Mary could hardly walk. Catherine said sardonically that that was rather the point. It was an outfit for seeing and being seen, and accordingly looked very dramatic: the sheer, silvery over-robe forming shifting patterns over the cloudy, dappled grey of the underrobe, the bright, spring green of the skirt peeking out from the hem of the robes as she moved, and traced in leafy embroidery at the cuffs and collar. The older girl declared it perfect, and insisted that now Mary would have to attend the January session of the Wizengamot, just to show it off.

After the fitting was completed, Mary was taken to a witches’ salon to have what Catherine referred to as ‘that horrible muggle haircut’ reversed. Mary herself didn’t think the haircut was so bad (if she had hated it, it surely would have grown out by now). It was messy, but still long enough that she could pull it into a ponytail. The stylist, however, somehow coaxed her hair into growing out long enough that the curls stretched into waves, and rinsed it in a potion to restore its natural color, which Mary had to admit looked better.

Before Mary knew it, the last Sunday in August was upon them, and it was time to catch the Hogwarts express. As she had the year before, Mary floo’d to the platform, where Catherine un-shrank her trunk and bid her a fond (albeit hasty) farewell. Eirene, the owl, was sent on ahead, and her cage stowed in Mary’s luggage. Hermione had gotten a particularly bad portkey time – eight-thirty – and rather than drive up to London ridiculously early for the second time in three weeks, Emma and Dan had let her port’ directly from Kent. They sent their love to Mary and greetings to Lilian, and hoped to see the girls over the winter hols. The three girls together managed to manhandle their trunks into a compartment (Lilian and Hermione did most of the lifting, while Mary, the shortest and skinniest of the three, ‘supervised’) and the Weasley twins showed up just after the nick of time offering to help.

Hermione did let them pull her trunk down and retrieve the potions ingredients she had bought for them before returning the trunk easily to its luggage rack.

“Thanks, Hermione,” one of the boys began.

“Mum would never let us out of her sight long enough to get any of this stuff,” his brother finished.

“So you’ve said,” Hermione replied with a grin. “Do I even want to know what you’re planning?”

“Dunno?” “Do you?” “It’s nothing bad.” “R and D.” “We’ll show you this weekend if you like.”

The Ravenclaw looked suspicious, but her curiosity had been piqued. “Yeah, alright. I’ll meet you in the usual place?”

“Third floor,” one of them confirmed. Both nodded. “Righto, we’re off to bother Ronniekins, then.” “Ta, lovelies!”

“Lovelies?” Lilian echoed, staring after the retreating twins. “Since when do the Weasleys flirt?”

“Since last year,” Hermione said, slightly pink.

“Before or after Catgirl?” Mary asked, and dodged Hermione’s slap at her shoulder. “Too slow! What happened to cats having good reflexes?”

“I’m ignoring you,” the older girl informed her.

“Aww, you’re no fun,” Lilian complained.

“Bet that’s the real reason she’s still speaking to them,” Mary said derisively.

Hermione’s only response was a rude hand gesture to the pair of them, as she retreated into the same book she had been reading since she had port’ed in that morning.

“C’mon, Lils, let’s see if we can find Remus. He said he’d be taking the train with us this year.”

“Why?” the older Slytherin asked, following Mary out of their compartment and down the train.

Mary rolled her eyes. “Security. Supposedly the Headmaster thinks the train might be attacked.”

“Merlin, can you say paranoid?”

“I know, right?”

Remus was finally located in the last compartment of the train. He appeared to be sleeping.

“Shabby sort of bloke, isn’t he?” Lilian whispered, taking in his several-times-mended casual robes and unkempt hair. Mary stepped on her toe. “Hey!”

“That was _rude_.”

“He’s _asleep_.”

“Do you think we should wake him?”

“I dunno. You’re the one who knows him. Do you think he’d want to talk to us, or keep sleeping?”

“ _I_ don’t know. It’s not like I _live_ with him. You don’t exactly write letters in bed, do you?”

“Maybe we should just come back later.”

“Yeah, alright, I guess,” Mary agreed, just as Remus cracked open one light brown eye.

“No need, pup, I’m up,” he said, his voice low and grumbly with sleep.

“Hi, Remus! We can let you sleep for a while if you want.”

“Nah, ‘s alright. I’ll have a nap later.” The man stood and stretched.

Mary suddenly noticed how worn and ill he looked. “Are you alright?”

“Bit under the weather. Who’s this?” He changed the subject. “The Lilian you’re always writing about?”

“Yeah, Lilian Moon. Lilian, meet Remus Lupin, the Last Marauder and I guess Professor, now. I suppose I’ll have to get used to calling you Professor Lupin.”

“Pleasure, Miss Moon,” Remus replied, bowing correctly over Lilian’s hand as she extended it. “And yes, it’s Professor Lupin in public, I’m afraid.”

“Professor Lupin,” Lilian completed the greeting.

“Well, you can still come sit with us, right?” Mary asked excitedly. “We’re about halfway up.”

Remus hesitated, but eventually said yes, and grabbed his suitcase to follow them back. Like everything else he owned, it was rather battered and worn, and in fact was held together with a large amount of carefully knotted string.

Hermione looked up when they returned to the compartment, her eyes flicking over the new arrival with interest. “I thought this was your first year as a professor,” she said, without introduction.

“It is,” Remus replied, clearly confused. “Would you be Hermione?”

“Yes, yes, Hermione Granger, first of her name,” she said, waving away the proprieties. “And you’re Remus Lupin, our new Defense professor. But it’s on your case?”

Remus chuckled. “Oh, that.”

Mary looked down to see ‘Professor RJ Lupin’ stamped in peeling letters across a corner of the case. “Do you sometimes find Hermione a bit scary?” she muttered to Lilian.

“Only almost all the time,” the girl responded, just as Remus explained, “It was a gift from my friends for graduation. They always called me the professor of our group, you see.”

Hermione nodded, clearly more interested in returning to her book than in continuing small talk, though this was not exactly unusual.

Remus seemed to see it, too, because he asked politely what she was reading.

“Flanders’ treatise on extra-planar physics. It’s quite fascinating.”

No one else seemed to think so, as an awkward silence developed after Remus’ noises of polite disinterest. “ _Why_?” Mary asked. The title alone made her head hurt. _Extra-planar physics, really?_

“It’s one of the only books on the mechanics of ritual magic I could find,” Hermione frowned at her book. “And I’m beginning to think that Flanders was either insane, or high on potions fumes or something. It’s interesting, but completely mad.”

“Who’s completely mad?” A dreamy voice floated into the compartment, followed by, “Oi! Luna! What’d you stop for?”

“I’ve found your compartment,” Luna replied calmly, poking her head inside. “Hello, Hermione Jean. Who’s completely mad?”

“Petrie Flanders.” Hermione held up the book.

“Oh, no, he’s sane, it’s just reality that’s mad. Are you our new Defense Professor?” she asked, but before Remus could answer, Ginny’s voice came in from the corridor again.

“Luna, if this is our compartment, let me in.”

“Sorry, lovely to meet you, sir, but Ginevra Phyllis is clearly impatient today,” she disappeared from the doorway, and Mary heard her say, “It’s not my compartment, it’s yours. You really do need to learn to listen more closely, Ginevra.”

“How many times have I told you to call me Ginny? And what do you mean it’s not your compartment?” Her head appeared around the door. “Hi, guys!”

“Two-hundred and seventy-six. And I’m going to find Aerin Mae. Farewell.”

Ginny rolled her eyes expressively at this. “Bye, Luna,” she called, and then added as they heard the sound of her humming retreating down the train, “I’ve known her as long as I can remember, and she _still_ drives me batty. Mind if I join you?”

Ginny was welcomed warmly, and struck up a conversation with Hermione and Lilian about their respective summers and her new wand, which was apparently nothing like her old wand, while Mary caught Remus up on everything that had happened since her birthday. She had decided that it was really all better explained in person, rather than by letter.

Shortly after the train began its journey north, Fred and George appeared again, looking for their sister for no apparent reason. Mary introduced them to Remus, without thinking, as the Last Marauder, and after a hurried, whispered conference wherein it was determined that Remus was, in fact, one of the same Marauders who had created the twins’ favorite artefact, they nearly fell over themselves, fawning over the ageing former prankster and begging for stories of his misspent youth. They sat on the floor at his feet as he regaled them with tales of mischief and mayhem, roaring with laughter as he described James Potter’s courtship of Lily Evans (the course of whose true love _really_ did _not_ run smoothly) and the Prank War of ’74. These stories carried them over until lunch, when the boys had to return to their compartment for their sandwiches, and Remus looked as though he was _desperately_ in need of a nap, no matter how fun and entertaining it might be to recount Professor McGonagall’s reaction to her robes being switched with a tartan dressing gown in the middle of his seventh-year welcome feast.

“During the _sorting_ , Gred!”

“The _balls_ , Forge!”

“We have to top _that,_ Gred!”

“We can only dream…” ‘Gred’ trailed off as they headed down the corridor.

“Do… do you think I should have told them we got detention for a month for that?” Remus choked out between his own laughter.

Hermione, who had appeared to be paying no attention at all, absorbed in her mad metaphysics book, answered quite suddenly, “I shouldn’t think it would make much of a difference. Snape –” (“Professor Snape,” the Slytherins chorused.) “Yes, him. He’s already given us all detention for the next three months of Saturdays, give or take a bit. At their rate, they’ll be booked up until they graduate by the end of this year.”

Ginny went pale, presumably at the thought of Fred and George unrestrained by the threat of additional detentions. Mary, on the other hand, went pale at the look on Remus’ face as he asked, “What did you _do_?”

“We’re, erm… not allowed to say,” she squeaked.

“Miss Potter, I’m asking as your professor,” Remus raised a tired eyebrow.

“No, really, I can’t say. You’d have to ask Snape.”

Remus gave Mary a dubious look at this, but thankfully Hermione changed the subject. “Why do you get to call him Just Snape when you correct me every time?!”

“Because he likes me more than he likes you,” Mary deadpanned, and the rest of the compartment burst into laughter.

“Okay, stop, stop,” Remus begged. “You can’t be seriously telling me that Severus Snape invited a _Potter_ to be informal with him.”

Mary nodded. “But I’m pretty sure he thinks of me as a bastard Evans, so, you know…”

“He’s still got a crush on Lils after all these years? Merlin’s balls!” Then, apparently realizing that he was supposed to be a professor, he corrected himself: “Erm, sorry. Beard.” All of the girls ignored this. It wasn’t as though they never swore amongst themselves. Mary and Lilian in particular had picked up bad habits from the Quidditch team.

“He insists it’s more of a brotherly affection.”

“When have you been talking to Snape about his feelings?” Lilian asked, shocked.

“She can’t have done,” Ginny responded. “He hasn’t got any.”

“Hmmm, yes, I’m making it all up,” Mary lied, glad for the excuse to avoid Lilian’s question. The brassy Slytherin narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but Mary just gave her best too-innocent smile, and she let it go. They would talk about it later.

###  Sunday, 29 August 1993 (Afternoon)

#### Hogwarts Express

After their lunches were finished, Mary, Lilian and Ginny decided to visit other acquaintances. Hermione waved absently as they left. The first compartment of relatively friendly faces they ambled across was the majority of the Slytherin Quidditch team, who were in the midst of a debate about the Irish Quidditch team’s Firebolts, which all of the girls joined eagerly. Lilian was on Flint’s side, arguing that a matched set of brooms was best for a chaser squad, while Mary joined the beaters in defending different brooms for different player classes. Everyone knew Comets were better than the Nimbus for chasers, but a seeker needed more maneuverability. Ginny, surprisingly, supported Bole in his argument that if a new broom outperformed the top models in every class – speed, maneuverability, and braking (which was what the Firebolt claimed), there was no reason not to have everyone fly the same broom.

When it became clear that Flint wasn’t going to win the debate, he changed the subject. “What the fuck happened to your arm, Potter?”

Mary blushed. “I did a barrel roll into a tree-branch a few weeks back.”

“So, what is that thing?”

“It’s a cast,” she said blankly. “You know, muggle healers use them for broken bones?”

And then, of course, she had to explain the whole adventure, including how she, their madcap daredevil, had crashed into a tree, of all things, why she had been taken to a muggle hospital, and why her arm hadn’t been healed properly as soon as she was rescued. She was very red by the end of it, and made a hasty get-away, followed by the guffaws of the older boys.

Most of the Gryffindor Quidditch team (excepting Thorpe and Wood), plus Lee Jordan, were only a few cars down, discussing their chances of finding a really good seeker this year. Thorpe wasn’t bad, but he was, in Mary’s opinion (and apparently that of his teammates) rather average. The Slytherins lost Ginny there as she tried to convince her brothers it wasn’t completely mad for her to try out.

Aerin and Luna were three compartments down, but Aerin was still being short with Mary, so they moved on relatively quickly, Lilian saying loudly as they went not to worry about her, she was just in a snit because it was that time of the month. There might have been some truth to the accusation, or else Lilian had been taunting her sister an awful lot this summer, because Aerin had followed them into the corridor with a shriek and sent a Bat Bogey Hex at her. Lilian blocked it easily before blowing her sister a kiss. “Love you, too, sis!”

“Piss. Off. Lilian.” Aerin had answered coldly. Lilian refused to explain what was going on between them. Mary made a mental note to ask her about it when Lilian finally cornered her about the Snape thing.

They found the Slytherin pranksters, fifth-years, now, a few compartments down. Morgana and Perry were snuggling on one of the benches, clearly together, and Adrian had been joined by a girl Mary vaguely recognized from Quidditch trials the previous year. He introduced her as Lindsay Turner, a fourth year and his girlfriend. He looked very proud at this, and no one had the heart to point out that Turner rolled her eyes at the title.

Mary once again had to explain what had happened to her arm and why it hadn’t been healed properly. Like everyone else, the pranksters seemed to agree that it was a fair punishment. “Too reckless by half,” was Perry’s comment. Lilian had laughed her arse off at the Heir of Slytherin getting called a Gryffindor, while Mary just narrowed her eyes threateningly at the Wilkes boy. Morgana, perhaps fearing for her boyfriend’s safety, changed the subject.

“So how was the rest of your summer?” she asked with a smirk.

“Oh, well, aside from Sirius Black escaping, dealing with the Accidental Magic Office, and the bloody Weasley twins acting like we’re still friends? It was alright,” she shrugged. “My birthday ritual was really amazing.”

This statement caused an uproar among the Slytherins, mostly asking why she had been dealing with the Accidental Magic Office, though Lindsay asked why she was ever friends with the Weasleys in the first place. They all knew about the Sirius Black situation already – the pureblood gossip grapevine was a highly effective intelligence network.

Mary, just to punish Wilkes for implying she had been acting Gryffindorishly, and the rest of them for laughing at her broken arm, chose to address the fourth-year instead of the others. “Because you can’t just be allies with Gryffindors,” she said simply, which garnered her appreciative smirks. “And now they’re not catching my hints at all that I’m not pleased with them.”

“What have you done?” Morgana asked.

“Mostly just ignored them and reverted to icy politeness.”

“Well there’s your problem,” Adrian chuckled.

“What?”

“You’re still being polite! They’re Gryffindors _and_ Weasleys. Subtlety is not in their vocabulary. They’re not going to get it that you don’t want them around if you don’t actually push them away, rude as it most definitely would be,” he elaborated.

Mary sighed. She had no practice being rude to people. Normally she tried to get them to stick around, not drive them off. Turner, apparently realizing that Mary didn’t want to talk about it, asked the third-years if they were excited about Snape’s extra class.

Mary and Lilian stared at her with complete incomprehension. She smirked. “I can’t believe Moon didn’t tell you!”

“Tell us what?” Lilian asked.

“Oh, well, now I’m not going to ruin the surprise if no one else has.” The fifth-years sniggered. Mary groaned.

“Fine, then, be that way,” Lilian said, affecting boredom. “We’re bound to find out eventually.”

“Yep!” Turner said brightly. Lilian’s false disinterest clearly would not work on her.

“Let’s go, Liz,” she said lightly, “I think there are still others we were hoping to see, yes?”

Mary nodded. “We haven’t seen any of our year yet, after all.”

And with that they slipped out of the compartment, now with the goal of finding anyone who knew anything about their new class and what it might entail.

Unfortunately, they didn’t encounter any likely candidates. They did find two compartments full of firsties. Lilian informed them that their House was determined by a spelling test, and Mary told them that it was determined by the methods they used to get through an obstacle course.

They ran into Blaise, Daphne, and Theo, along with Zacharias Smith and Fay Dunbar near the back quarter of the train. They were running a book on which new students would be sorted into which house. Mary put a galleon on Dave Rhees to be in Slytherin, while Lilian bet that he would be in Ravenclaw, because muggleborns _never_ went to Slytherin. Mary didn’t feel she knew any of the others well enough to say, but Lilian put another galleon on each of the Professor’s Ducklings for Hufflepuff. Mary hoped they wouldn’t end up there: the girls had seemed so overwhelmed by the shopping trip that she couldn’t imagine how they’d handle living with the Hufflepuffs. The girls handed over their money and agreed to sit with the other Slytherins at dinner to catch up on their summers before continuing down the train so as not to block the corridor.

The remaining members of their year had a compartment to themselves just a few places down, but since all six of them were present, and unlikely to budge up so that they could sit, they stayed only long enough to exchange formal pleasantries before slipping away. Mary, for one, was glad that she wouldn’t have to explain her flying accident to Malfoy, who was sure to mock her about it forever, anyway, once the rest of the team filled him in.

In the very last compartment, formerly occupied by Remus, they found Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom with their Gryffindor yearmates, animatedly discussing the new Care of Magical Creatures textbook. Neville, apparently against Ron’s recommendation, had decided to take Ancient Runes rather than Care of Magical Creatures. He was very glad he did when he saw the book Ron pulled from his trunk, still tied shut with the twine from the bookstore.

“I’m telling you, Ron,” Neville was saying, “I don’t care if it’s supposed to be an easy _O_ , any class with a book that tries to eat you is one I’m glad I’m not in.”

“Oh, come off it Nev! I give it three weeks of Runes until you’re begging to switch!”

“Not likely!”

“Have you guys heard who the new prof is?” Lilian asked, leaning on the half-open door.

Neville shook his head, while Ron said, “Excuse me, did anyone ask you?”

Lilian shook her head sarcastically slowly, and rolled her eyes at Mary, who was leaning on the wall, out of sight of all the boys but Neville. “No,” she drawled, “ _I_ asked _you_ …”

“Like we’d tell you anything, you slimy snake!”

“What the hell is your problem, Weasley?” she asked, “I was just making conversation.”

“My problem is you, and all your slimy friends. You know it was Malfoy’s dad who got my sister possessed last year, and you still go around making bloody nice with him!”

This was news to Mary, and she thought it probably was to Lilian as well, though the older girl hid her surprise. “Draco Malfoy is not his father,” she remarked lightly. “And I’m here ‘making nice,’ as you put it, with you, even though two of your brothers kidnapped my best friend, aren’t I? Civility is a virtue.”

“Is it now?” a broad, Irish accent answered. Seamus Finnegan, Mary thought.

“Well, in _some_ circles,” Lilian smirked.

“Piss off, Moon!” Weasley said, sounding very flustered at the thinly veiled insult.

“Fine, fine, I can tell where I’m not wanted. Gryffindors,” she said, with a jaunty false salute. The girls lurked in the corridor long enough to hear Dean Thomas say, “I thought you said Potter was alright.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what Ginny says, but her memory’s been messed with. No one really knows what happened down there. And even if she wasn’t the Heir, they’re still stuck-up bitches, her and Moon both.”

Longbottom cleared his throat timidly and changed the subject: “ _Have_ you heard anything about a new Professor?”

“Nah,” Finnegan answered. “I heard Kettleburn was retiring, but not who they’ve got to replace him.”

At that Mary and Lilian finally headed back up the corridor toward their own compartment.

“Stuck up bitches, are we?” Lilian repeated irritably.

“Well,” Mary said, considering the statement, “given that he’s come off the worse in every single interaction I’ve ever had with him, and you snark at him every chance you get, and neither one of us would touch him with a ten-foot broom because he’s such a classless arse, I’m going to go with _yes_ … but in a _good_ way.”

Lilian was still laughing at that proclamation when they re-entered their compartment, and was immediately shushed by Hermione.

“Professor Lupin’s sleeping,” she whispered, by way of explanation. “What’s so funny?”

###  Sunday, 29 August 1993 (Evening)

#### Hogwarts Express

Lilian recounted their adventures up and down the train, forcing the Ravenclaw to crack several smiles, as Mary stared blankly at a window, watching their reflections. They had to be close to the castle, now. The rain which had started unnoticeably hours before was now pelting hard against the glass, and the lanterns had been activated along the luggage racks. It seemed much later than Mary knew it really was, and she was beginning to think that Hermione, curled up with her book, had the right idea.

Suddenly, the train started to slow down.

“We can’t be there yet,” Hermione said, looking at her watch.

“Well, we’ve never stopped anywhere but Hogsmeade before,” Lilian pointed out. They were no longer bothering to keep their voices down, but Remus slept on, undisturbed.

The noises of the train fell away, and the wind and rain seemed to become correspondingly louder. Lilian stuck her head out the door, and reported that there was nothing obviously wrong, just in time for the train to come to a full stop with a jolt, sending her careening into Hermione’s lap, and luggage throughout the train out of its racks with distant bangs and thuds.

“Oof!”

“Sorry, Jeanie!”

“Budge _off,_ Lili!”

“I’m _trying!_ ”

The lights went out with a small pop.

“Ouch! Lili, that was my hair! Get off!”

“Your hair is everywhere! Why don’t you ever put it up?!”

There was a thump as Hermione pushed Lilian to the floor – or at least that’s what Mary thought had happened from the other Slytherin’s sudden swearing. She wasn’t paying too much attention, instead pressing her face to the glass, peering into the dark.

“ _Lumos_!” Lilian muttered, still sitting on the floor. “What the bloody hell is going on?”

“How the bloody hell should we know?” Hermione answered, lighting her own wand.

“Remus? Remus, wake up!” Mary demanded, prodding the man hard in the shoulder. He grabbed her wrist instinctively, nearly _growling_ at her until he realized where he was and who he was holding in place.

“Sorry, Mary,” he said, wandlessly conjuring a handful of fire and moving to the door. It slid open slowly just as he reached it, revealing a towering, cloaked figure, its face completely hidden beneath its hood. It reached out a glistening, grayish, slimy-looking, scabbed hand toward the wizard, who stepped back, though he kept himself between the thing and the girls.

The thing – it couldn’t be human, not with a hand like that – drew a deep, rattling breath, and Mary suddenly realized she was cold… _so_ cold. It felt like there was ice inside her skin, stabbing deep, into her very heart.

Mary’s eyes rolled up. She was blind! Blind and freezing, drowning in cold. There was a rushing like water in her ears, and she was being dragged down, roaring growing ever louder.

Then, from far away, she heard screaming, terrible, terrified, pleading screams. She wanted to help whomever it was, and tried to move her arms, but she couldn’t… a thick, white fog was swirling around her, inside her –

“Liz! Elizabeth! Are you alright?”

Mary opened her eyes to find that there were lanterns above her and the floor was shaking – the train was moving again, and she was somehow lying on the floor. Her friends were kneeling next to her, and Remus was watching as he rummaged around for something in his much-larger-on-the-inside suitcase.

Mary felt very sick. There was cold sweat on her face when she reached up to adjust her glasses. Lilian and Hermione helped her back up to a bench, laying her gently on her side.

“Are you alright?” Lilian repeated.

“Ugh, _no_ ,” Mary groaned. “What happened? What was that thing? Who was screaming?”

“No one screamed,” Hermione said, answering the easiest question first.

“Sure it wasn’t Parseltongue?” Lilian asked.

“Yeah, no, it was a woman. A human woman, she was pleading with someone not to kill someone…”

Mary’s recollection was interrupted by a loud snap. Remus was now breaking an enormous slab of chocolate into pieces. He passed them around, urging the girls to eat it.

“What was that thing?” Mary asked again, popping a bit of chocolate into her mouth rather half-heartedly. A warm sensation began to spread through her body, and she ventured a bit more.

“A dementor,” Remus said quietly. The girls stared at him. Mary, for one, was in shock. Surely the dementors were supposed to stay at Azkaban! “Eat your chocolate,” he repeated. “I need to go talk to the driver.” And with that he vanished into the corridor.

“What… what happened?” Mary asked, swallowing hard. Obviously the dementor had made her relive her worst memory, and she had a sneaking suspicion as to what that memory was, but she had no idea what had been going on outside her head.

“Well…” Hermione began hesitantly, but grew more confident as she explained, “That thing, the dementor, stood there and looked around – I mean, I think it did, I couldn’t see its face – and I got all cold, and I remembered, well, terrible things – Tom, and Slytherin-me – and you, you…”

“You just slumped to the floor,” Lilian provided. “Fainted, or something. And then you went stiff and started, like, twitching. It was scary.”

“And then Professor Lupin realized what was happening and told the thing to sod off – that none of us was hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks – but it didn’t go, so he shot some silvery spell at it, and then it finally glided away.”

Mary shivered. “I’m never going to prison,” she said, drawing a small laugh from Lilian, and a concerned look from Hermione. She didn’t mind, as long as it drew attention away from the fact that she had gone all to pieces, and they hadn’t. She continued to nibble her chocolate as Lilian explained exactly what dementors did, a detail which had not come up in their many discussions of Sirius Black’s escape.

Hermione was appalled. “So that’s what the Prophet was talking about – humane treatment of prisoners,” she said with a shudder. “Good God, it felt like I’d never be happy again!”

“We’ll be at Hogwarts in ten minutes,” Remus said, returning from the front of the train. “Better?” he asked, looking around to see that the girls were still working on their chocolate.

They nodded silently, none apparently feeling very talkative anymore. When they finally arrived at the platform, there was a greater rush than usual to get off the train, despite the icy rain. The fresh air helped almost as much as the chocolate had. Mary watched the terrified firsties make their way to Hagrid, adding another debit to Sirius Black’s account for ruining their first trip to Hogwarts.

The girls pushed their way through the crowd, and managed to make it into the first round of carriages up to the castle, joined at the last second by Ginny, who grabbed Hermione’s hand tightly and refused to let go. Mary would have been willing to bet that Ginny’s worst memory was even worse than hers – at least she had only been a year old, and hadn’t known what was happening. Hermione murmured soothing words in the younger girl’s ear, holding her close and petting her hair until she stopped shaking.

Mary deliberately stopped listening after she caught the words ‘Tom’ and ‘stronger than him.’ She very much did not want to think of _him_ forcing her youngest friend to attack people, controlling her like a puppet and driving her to attempt suicide at the age of _eleven_. Yes, she decided, Ginny’s worst memories were probably _much_ worse than hers, and thanks to Snape’s Inception Charm, Hermione shared them. She wondered what they had seen, but not enough to ask.

Lilian didn’t look much better, her face very, very pale, even now. Mary squeezed her hand tightly, wondering if she had seen the memory of finding out her little brother had died, or if there was something even worse in her past that Mary didn’t know about.

She knew her thoughts were morbid, but she couldn’t seem to stop them. They grew stronger and as they approached the gates of the castle, a wave of cold sickness engulfing her once again as their carriage passed between two dementors standing, like guards, on either side of it. Mary leaned back into the seat cushions and closed her eyes as Lilian crushed her hand, and Hermione drew Ginny closer, so the smaller girl was nearly sitting in her lap.

Finally they were through, and safely stumbling through the doors of the castle, only to hear a voice calling, “Potter! Granger! I want to see you both!”

Lilian looked concerned, and Ginny released Hermione’s hand with obvious reluctance, but neither of them was about to argue with the Deputy Headmistress. Mary and Hermione followed the Professor to her office, where the Professor said, rather abruptly, “Professor Lupin sent a patronus ahead to say that you were taken ill on the train, Mary.”

Madam Pomfrey came bustling in before Mary could say that she was more concerned about Ginny than herself. She was about to protest the mediwitch’s presence, before she realized that she could finally get her bloody arm healed.

“It was a dementor, Poppy,” the Professor said, and exchanged a dark look with the matron.

“Setting dementors around a school,” she muttered, peering at Mary and feeling her forehead. “Yes, she’s all clammy. Terrible things, they are, and the effect they have on people who are already delicate…”

“I’m not delicate!” Mary protested.

“Of course you’re not,” the matron said patronizingly, taking her pulse.

“What does she need?” the Professor asked crisply. “Should she spend the night in the Hospital wing?”

“Oh, no! Come on! It’s the first night! I’m fine!”

“She needs some chocolate at the very least,” Madam Pomfrey said, ignoring Mary’s protests and trying to look into her eyes.

“I’ve had some! Remus passed it around.”

“Did he, now? Glad we’ve finally got a Defense teacher who knows his remedies.” There was an approving glint in the matron’s eye.

“So I’m good, then? I can go?”

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright, Miss Potter?”

“ _Yes_. I’m not magically exhausted or actually ill or anything!” she declared. “But, erm… if you wouldn’t mind…” she held out her arm and pulled up her sleeve to reveal the muggle cast.

Madam Pomfrey tutted and subjected her to a ten-minute lecture on muggle healing and why she ought to have just gone to St. Mungo’s before fixing her arm, but Mary thought it was worth it. She gleefully conjured a rainbow of sparks as soon as she could move her wrist again. The lecture continued until the Professor and Hermione reappeared. Mary hadn’t even noticed that they had slipped out while she was under the matron’s steely gaze.

The Professor cleared her throat. “If that’s all, Poppy, we do need to get to the Feast.”

“It most certainly is _not_ all, Minerva McGonagall! We will be having _words_ this evening!” Madam Pomfrey snapped. But she did let them go.

Despite the lingering effects of the dementor, Mary was practically skipping to be able to use her wand arm again, and Hermione looked very pleased with herself, too.

“What was that about, then?” Mary asked her quietly as the Professor hurried ahead.

“Just a class scheduling issue,” Hermione said. “It’s dealt with, anyway.”

“What classes are you taking, again?”

“All of them,” Hermione said with a faint blush.

“ _Hermione!_ ” Mary was shocked. “I know we said to _sign up_ for everything, but we didn’t expect you to _keep_ everything!”

“You can’t tell anyone. I’m doing some lessons with other houses, and some independent study to make it work, but it should be fine!”

“You’re going to go spare! That’s like a whole extra course-load!”

“It’s only two classes more than you,” Hermione retorted.

“And twice as many as last year! What good are you going to get out of Muggle Studies?! Your parents are muggles!”

“But it’ll be good to get a wizarding perspective, won’t it?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be studying for your O-levels, too?”

“Well, _yes_ , but that’s in my free time.”

“You aren’t going to _have_ any free time with _twelve_ classes, genius.”

“It’ll be _fine_ , Lizzie, you’ll see,” Hermione insisted, clearly still pleased with herself and her schedule, as they entered the Hall. Professor Flitwick was just carrying out the Sorting Hat. “Oh, we’ve missed it!” she added softly.

“Meet you tomorrow at lunch?” Mary asked.

“Yeah, suppose so. If I’m not here, I’ll be in the library,” Hermione answered. She bounced away toward the Ravenclaw table as Mary scanned the crowd of Slytherins for Lilian and the other third-years. Daphne, Blaise and Theo had vanished, but Lilian was about halfway down on the Hufflepuff side.

As she reached her friend, she realized that something was very wrong. No one was talking _at all_ , and there were a lot of surreptitious stares being thrown down the length of the table at a very small, very damp-looking firstie.

She didn’t have a chance to ask about him, however, because as soon as she sat down next to Lilian, Dumbledore stood to make an announcement.

“Welcome!” he called across the hall. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast,” he cleared his throat. “As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business.”

A discontented grumble broke out throughout the table. Mary distinctly heard Malfoy say, two seats down on the opposite side, that his father would be hearing about this. For once she agreed. She thought she might send an owl to Catherine and Emma as well. The last thing the school needed was demonic prison guards swarming around it.

“They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds,” the Headmaster continued, “and while they are with us, I must make it plain that nobody is to leave the school without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises – or even Invisibility Cloaks,” he added blandly. Mary rolled her eyes. How stupid did the Headmaster think they were? “It is not in the nature of a dementor to understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you. I look to the prefects, and our new Head Boy and Girl to make sure that no student runs afoul of the dementors.” Mary wondered idly who the Head Girl was. She knew Percy Weasley was Head Boy, because Ginny and the twins had complained about it, but no one had mentioned the Head Girl.

“On a happier note,” Dumbledore continued, “I am pleased to welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year: First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

There was some scattered, unenthusiastic applause. Only the girls and the Weasley twins clapped hard as he stood and made a short, formal bow, looking very shabby next to the other professors in their best robes.

“Look at Snape!” Lilian whispered in Mary’s ear.

Their Head of House was staring at Remus with pure loathing. Mary had hoped that they would be able to work together, despite the fact that they hadn’t gotten on in their school days. In his letters, when Remus had talked about Snape, it was with a sort of nostalgic and rueful air, as though he was not proud of his younger self, but perhaps amused by his foolishness. It appeared Snape didn’t remember their schoolboy feud nearly as fondly.

 _Bugger_.

“As to our second new appointment,” the Headmaster said as the lukewarm applause for Professor Lupin died away, “Well, I am sorry to tell you that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs.” That was not news at all. “However, I am delighted to say that his place will be filled by none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his gamekeeping duties.”

Mary’s jaw (figuratively) hit the floor. No way. There was no _bloody_ way she was taking any class taught by _Hagrid_. She was sure he knew his creatures, but they’d probably be slaughtered by a “cute” “little” quintaped or something in his first class. Absolutely not.

“Do you think Snape would let me drop Creatures?” she asked Lilian, her question lost in the tumultuous applause from the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables.

“Probably,” Lilian whispered back, “but I’m keeping it. It’ll be good to get out of the castle more, and I want to keep the option to drop one of the others if it’s really horrible.”

“Well, I think that’s everything of importance,” Dumbledore announced. “Let the feast begin!”

The golden plates and goblets filled with food and drink. Mary served herself and then finally asked Lilian why everyone was so tense.

Lilian’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she whispered, “We’ve got a _muggleborn_!”

“What?!” Mary replied, rather too loudly. “Is it Rhees?”

Lilian nodded.

“Well, you seem awfully cheerful for someone who just lost a bet. Where did your other firsties go?”

“Two Hufflepuff, one Gryffindor,” Lilian said, waving away Mary’s question. “Can’t you just wait to see how things shape up this year? It’s going to be brilliant. I bet at least five upperclassmen get hexed for breaking the truce and Rule One.”

“Lilian,” Mary said seriously, “his first month is going to be even worse than mine was. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

“Going soft, Potter?” Blaise whispered in her ear. She startled, badly, and he sniggered at her. “Budge over, Moon.”

He joined them on the bench and Mary punched him in the shoulder, hard. “Don’t do that, you arsehole.”

“Not my fault you weren’t being observant. Now, what’s this about you being a blood traitor?” Mary hit him again.

“I think he likes that,” Lilian smirked. “It doesn’t seem to be having the intended effect.”

Blaise reached out and wrapped an arm around each of them, pulling them close and murmuring in Lilian’s ear, “Of course I do, but then, you always knew I was a sick puppy, Moon.” He ignored Mary’s struggles to free herself from his evil clutches.

“Save it for the common room, Zabini,” Lilian grinned, pushing his pouty face away from her own.

“You know you love it, Moon. So, Potter,” he said, changing tone and course, releasing Lilian completely (she stuck her tongue out at him before turning to Lawrence Chesterfield, last year’s reserve keeper and apparently the new fifth-year prefect). “I owe you fifteen galleons, right?”

“Yes. Yes you do.”

He slipped a handful of gold into her pocket with the arm that had been casually holding her in place and finally let her go.

“Where’re Daphne and Theo?”

Blaise shrugged. “Networking, and being an antisocial creeper respectively.”

“I _do_ hope you appreciate the irony of _you_ calling anyone else a creeper,” Mary snarked.

“Ah, but I’m a _social_ creeper, which makes a world of difference, right Moon?”

“No,” Lilian threw over her shoulder without breaking off her conversation with Chess.

“You wound me, cruel female!” the boy declared dramatically.

“Whatever,” she returned casually.

“Aren’t you and Daphne dating?” Mary asked.

“Dating might be too strong of a word. We’re friends. Our parents are in pre-pre-nuptial negotiations. It’s an open relationship.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

“I’m… very happy for you both?” Mary said questioningly.

He waved this away. “Nah, it’s no big deal until we’re at least fifteen.”

“Right…” Mary knew many of the Old Families, including the Greengrasses, wrote betrothal contracts early, but it was something else entirely to put it in the perspective that two kids _her own age_ were already thinking about marriage.

“ _Anyway_ , how was your summer? Flint, Bole, and Montague were telling an amusing story about you flying into a tree and having an adventure at a muggle hospital. Don’t tell me you went native over the break.”

Mary flushed, but wiggled her fingers in front of his face. “It’s fixed now! They can go to hell!”

“Language, Potter! I’m just saying, even I’ve never actually run into a tree.”

Blaise was actually a very good flier, he just had no hand-eye coordination and therefore no skill when it came to Quidditch. “I didn’t just ‘run into a tree,’ I was flying slalom under the tree line during a thunderstorm, and got distracted by a lightning strike just in time for a branch to knock me out,” she admitted.

“Well, at least you didn’t _just_ run into a tree. Daphne did that once, when we were about eight. It was hilarious. Ask Astoria sometime. She tells it the best. Anything else fun and exciting I should know about?”

“Nope,” Mary said, popping the p.

“Are you sure?” Blaise asked teasingly.

“Of course I am. What exactly are you insinuating?” she added suspiciously.

Suddenly, Blaise’s lips were very close to Mary’s ear. “I hear someone’s favorite godfather is headed to Hogwarts,” he whispered in a sing-song tone.

“Not exactly what I’d call ‘fun and exciting,’ Zabini,” Mary said, raising a very unimpressed eyebrow at him.

“Well, exciting at the very least,” he said with a shameless grin. “I’m off to find Theo. Ta!”

And with that he smoothly extricated himself from the bench and sauntered away.

“What was all that about?” Lilian asked.

“I… _think_ he just tried to give me a friendly warning.”

“Weird.”

“Very.”

Shortly after that, dessert was served. Mary and Lilian chatted about their new professors with their nearest neighbors and when they grew bored of that, began a running commentary on the activities of Snape and Sinistra at the High Table. There was something subtly different about their Head of House, something that had changed since they saw him at Diagon Alley, and it took nearly until the end of the feast for Lilian to put her finger on what.

“His hair!”

“What about it? Snape shoots furtive glance at Sinistra, who appears to be checking out Remus, possibly only to irritate Snape.”

“It’s shiny and, well, normal looking.”

“Wait, he broke the hair curse?”

“Must’ve done. Ooh, Snape’s left hand vanishes behind the table. Judging by _that_ expression, I doubt it’s doing anything innocent down there…”

“Sinistra, boiling mad, or potentially just boiling, gives Snape a smouldering glare.”

“Have you been reading Hermione’s romance novels?”

“No,” Mary said, too-innocently. “Only the particularly well-worn scenes of Catherine’s. Why?”

Lilian sniggered. “Your sexy dialogue needs work.”

The Headmaster stood again and cleared his throat. “Now that the essential task of feeding and watering ourselves has been all but accomplished, I believe we have time for a few more words.

“As always, the Forbidden Forest is still _forbidden_ to all students. Argus Filch has added an additional seventy-three items to the lists of banned items posted on his door, which I advise you to consult before your next trip to Zonko’s, and, we mustn’t forget: soporific, defenestrate, petrichor, and ambisinister. Now, if you will all pick your favorite tune, we shall have the school song before we’re off to bed!”

The Slytherins, as was traditional, plugged their ears and waited until the cacophony of the school song died away, to be replaced by a young man’s voice saying, “This is Lawrence Chesterfield speaking. Second-years and up are to make their way to the common room to meet the ickle firsties. The password is _Bitis inornata_. You all will have a five-minute head start, as always. Remember, the password is _Bitis inornata_.”

A moment later, he was back, announcing to the firsties that they would meet in the entrance hall in five minutes.

“How the bloody hell does he come up with these passwords?” Lilian grumbled as they made their way toward the common room.

“They’re all viper species,” Mary said. “I asked last year after it got changed to ‘pureblood’ all break. Snape chooses the first one, and it’s always a viper, and then the prefects take turns over the rest of the year.”

Lilian looked around furtively. “Should you be saying that aloud?” she whispered.

Mary shrugged. “There’s about a hundred of them. I think it’s safe enough.”

“Hmm. Maybe that can be the new Snape Fact.”

“Snape Fact?”

“You know, all the things they warn the firsties about: Snape is an ex-Death Eater, Snape is not anorexic, Snape is not a morning person, never ever knock on the door to Snape’s personal quarters… I think they keep an actual list somewhere for new prefects.”

“Why would they need a new one?”

“Well, obviously his hair is no longer cursed, so they can’t use that.”

Mary grinned as they entered the common room. It was a relief to be back. “I dunno, I think they could get more mileage out of the Snape-Sinistra thing.”

The girls flopped down on a couch near Theo and Daphne. Blaise had draped himself across the two of them like a very large cat, and Daphne was playing with his hair.

“Don’t you three look cozy,” Lilian observed.

“Save me, Moon, Potter!” Theo demanded. Now that she looked more closely, she could see that Blaise’s apparently casually draped limbs were specifically placed to pin Theo to his seat and prevent him reaching his wand.

“No chance,” Mary said, giving him an overdone look of pity. “If we get too close, he’s bound to pull us in as well.”

“Bloody wanker,” Theo grumbled, trying to prise one of his arms free. Daphne sniggered at him.

“What the hell happened to you over the summer, Zabini? You never used to be this… physically affectionate,” Lilian said, a hint of real curiosity under her feigned distaste. Mary was well aware that Blaise was a good-looking boy. In a year or two, she was sure he would rival Kirke and Diggory for the title of most attractive boy in school. She doubted her friend had any problem with his manhandling her in the Great Hall.

“Either I’ve decided to embrace my true heritage as an incubus, or Number Seven finally bit it, and I’m in need of comforting,” he said, with a completely straight face, then added, with puppy-dog eyes for Theo, “Why won’t you love me?”

“Fine, I’m not gay, you fucking psychopath! Let me go!”

Blaise sat up at that, releasing his victim and tousling his hair back to its usual perfection. “Well, that’s all you had to say, wasn’t it. Was it so hard?”

“What? Calling you a psychopath? No, that’s easy enough.” Theo moved to Mary and Lilian’s couch, safely out of Blaise’s arm’s reach.

“No, admitting you’re not gay.”

“Maybe I lied. It’s still none of your business.”

“Wait, you were pinned to the couch because you wouldn’t admit you’re _not_ gay?” Mary asked, dumbfounded and more than a little confused.

“That and I don’t like being touched and the sadist over there knows it,” he said, glaring at Blaise. Apparently no further explanation was forthcoming.

“Dark Powers, Theo, chill. It was _mostly_ because I was _bored_.” He checked the time with an idle flick of his wand. It was already a quarter past ten, and Snape was nowhere to be seen.

Their Head of House finally arrived almost five minutes later, appearing out of the labyrinth of tunnels which made up the dorm, rather than through the main entrance. Mary wondered if he had come in through a side-door, or if he had been there all along.

Ten minutes after that, the first-years finally made it through the door, several minutes slower than last year, which meant that Chess and Morgana, who had apparently been made the female prefect, though she hadn’t said anything on the train, were not congratulated for an improved time. This was not, however, entirely surprising, since there were at least four or five more students in this year’s class. They introduced themselves quickly, as did the prefects. Soon after that, the upperclassmen were dismissed. Lilian gave Mary a questioning look when she made no move to leave. Mary waved her away, explaining that she fully intended to wait and speak to Professor Snape about dropping Hagrid’s class.

Mary didn’t know if it was her imagination, or the ordeal with the dementor, or if Professor Snape really was belaboring _every_ point of his welcome speech, but it seemed to last ages longer than she remembered from her first year. He spent a particularly long time on the Truce and the House Rules, and sent Dave Rhees, whom Mary now recognized under his pointy hat, a significant look when he told the students to come to him if they were being bullied. On the other hand, he sent _her_ a significant look when he said that Black Arts were forbidden at Hogwarts, which she thought was a _bit_ unfair, given that she definitely didn’t _remember_ participating in any Black Arts rituals, and probably hadn’t done so voluntarily. (She hoped.)

Finally, he had quizzed the new students on his speech, and swept dramatically out of the room.

 _Shite!_ She had forgotten about his penchant for dramatic entrances and exits. As the firsties followed Chess and Morgana to their rooms, she poked her head out of the main doorway. As she had hoped, Professor Snape was leaning against a wall, waiting to smirk at her.

“Hello, sir.”

“Hello, Mary Elizabeth. Need I remind you of my office hours, _again_?”

Mary bit back a smile at his habitual sarcasm. “No, sir. I was hoping to speak to you about Care of Magical Creatures.”

“What about it? You have thirty seconds.”

That was fine. It couldn’t take more than two to say: “I want to drop it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s being taught by Hagrid.”

“He _is_ a professor now, _Miss_ Potter.”

“Sorry, sir. Professor Hagrid.” Snape made a motion for her to elaborate. “The same Hagrid – Professor Hagrid – who named a Cerberus ‘Fluffy,’ and tried to raise a dragon in his hut, and took a bunch of first-years into the Forest to hunt something that could kill unicorns, sir! Like I told Lilian, we’re liable to get killed by an adorable Quintaped called Boris or something. I want out.”

Snape’s face twitched in what Mary hoped was a suppressed smirk before he said, “Very well, I will have your schedule altered accordingly. If that is all…?”

She wanted to ask him what his problem was with Remus, but that could wait until she wasn’t about to fall asleep on her feet, and they weren’t in the middle of a public corridor. “Yes, sir,” she said, genuinely grateful to be out of that particular class. “Thank you, sir,” she added, turning back to the door to the common room. She found she couldn’t remember the new password for the life of her. After checking to make sure that Snape had already headed for his quarters, she hissed _< open>_ at the apparently blank wall. It did so and she headed for her own bed, smirking broadly.

It was _very_ good to be back.

 


	8. Classes in Session

###  Monday, 30 August – Wednesday, 1 September 1993

#### Hogwarts

The first few days of the new school year passed incredibly quickly. There were new elective classes on Monday and Tuesday, as well as a return to the core classes of previous years. Between these, Mary found herself dodging an increasingly irritable Marcus Flint, who wanted a straight answer as to whether she would be available for Quidditch trials on the second Saturday of term, and an increasingly curious Lilian, who very clearly still wanted to talk about the fact that Mary had apparently been hiding the information that she had been on first-name terms with Snape all summer. Lessons began on Monday without delay, heedless of the presence of dementors around the castle, the presence of a muggleborn in Slytherin, and the fact that Mary quite suddenly felt that she needed an extra week or two of vacation before dealing with her ever-more-complicated social life.

The class which Mary was most and least looking forward to was Remus’ Defense Against the Dark Arts. Most, because she just knew that Remus would be a good teacher – she could tell from his letters that he was good at explaining things, and after seven years of adventuring, he definitely knew his stuff. Least, because none of the other Slytherins knew that, and after Quirrell and Lockhart, they weren’t too keen on the idea of yet another potentially worthless professor. It had been Tracey, of all people, who had proposed on Monday at breakfast, while looking over their new schedules, that they ought to test him a bit in his first lesson, and in a rare moment of intra-Slytherin unity, Blaise and Malfoy had both agreed.

Remus had decided to break up their first lessons, so that he could get to know the students in smaller groups. The Hufflepuffs were excused from their first meeting of the year. This was considered by most of the Slytherins to be a good first move, especially since it meant they had an extra free period themselves later in the week. Unfortunately for Remus, without the Hufflepuffs to serve as a buffer, the Slytherins would be free to do their worst to the new Professor. Fortunately for the new professor, since the Slytherins were scheduled to have DADA first out of all the third-years, on Monday morning, they had no idea what their first lesson would entail.

The plan, therefore, was fairly simple: Blaise had volunteered at once to play the obnoxious student and see how many buttons he could push. Everyone else would help out as they saw an opportunity arise. Mary had a bad feeling about the whole situation, but she reluctantly decided to just sit back and let things unfold. After all, Remus _was_ a professor. He would have to figure out how to deal with students sooner or later, and warning him about this plot was a sure way to make sure she would be excluded from any others. Besides, it wasn’t as though she had much time, anyway.

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The Slytherins filed into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom nearly fifteen minutes before their first lesson was scheduled to begin. Remus was already there. Mary wondered exactly what Blaise was planning as she watched Remus – _No, Professor Lupin_ – shuffle his notes and the class settled into their seats. He looked even more tired and raggedy than he had on the train. The classroom was undecorated, and there was a large trunk standing on its end in one corner.

Remus cleared his throat and Pansy and Millicent – the only students still speaking – finally quietened. “Hello,” he said. His voice was just as unexpectedly confident as the first time Mary had heard him, back in her first year, despite his obvious exhaustion. Even Blaise and Draco sat up a bit straighter, looking at the scruffy, clearly-ill wizard before them with interest. “My name is Remus Lupin, and this is Defense Against the Dark Arts.” He took roll quickly, fixing names to the faces before him. “I think you’ll find this class even more informal than most, this year. I’m not one for standing on ceremony myself.

“Due to the unfortunate nature of this position, I’m sure you’ll have realized by now, each of the professors attempts to teach all years something that is their own specialty, and then fills in the curriculum gaps as they can for the OWL and NEWT students. We’ll be focusing on Dark creatures this term, through Class Three.

“If you’ll all stand and join me at the front of the room, I thought we’d start with a practical lesson.”

There was much murmuring as the Slytherins stood and shuffled forward, mostly to the effect that clearly no one had told poor Lupin how their last practical lesson had gone.

As Vinnie and Greg passed the last row of desks, Lupin banished them with a wave of his wand. The tables and chairs flew to the back wall and stacked themselves neatly. Another wave and the students’ bags followed them, settling gently on the floor. The students spread out into the newly open space, their two usual cliques gravitating away from each other.

“Today,” the professor said blandly, ignoring the looks his casual display of highly controlled, coordinated, wordless magic gathered, “we will be studying a boggart.” He motioned toward the trunk in the corner as the students shifted restlessly. “Who here can tell me what a boggart is?”

No one seemed inclined to volunteer, though Mary was certain someone knew. If it came to it, _she_ knew. It was in their textbooks, and at least half the Slytherins were the sort to read ahead, especially in the DADA text. Draco stepped forward after a long moment. “It’s a minor demon. A shape-shifting, class two-X Dark creature, capable of reproduction on our plane. It takes the shape of whatever it thinks will scare you the most.”

“Excellent. Five points to Slytherin for Mr. Malfoy. Now, since the boggart is a shapeshifter, and its shape is dependent on our fears, it will not have assumed a form in the trunk. When I let it out, it will immediately become whatever each of us most fears.

“This means that we have a huge advantage over the boggart before we begin. Can anyone tell me what it is? Somebody other than Mr. Malfoy,” he added, as Draco opened his mouth again.

“We know we’re facing a boggart,” Blaise drawled with a smirk, hands tucked casually into his pockets. “So we can decide ahead of time what we want it to turn into.”

Remus frowned slightly. “Not quite. Someone else?”

“It will have to choose which of us to try to frighten?” Lilian suggested, ignoring Blaise’s scowl, either at being told he was wrong, or that Remus had done it so deftly. He would obviously have to try a bit harder to fluster the former Marauder.

“Correct! Five points for Miss Moon. Now, the greatest weakness of a boggart is that it must focus on one person to be effective. For this reason, it is always best to have company when you are dealing with one. It will become confused, or be forced to shift between targets as they draw its attention in turn. For example, should it become a headless corpse or a flesh-eating slug? I once saw a boggart make that very mistake – tried to frighten two people at once and turned into half a slug. Not remotely frightening.”

Remus paused for the students to giggle at the image of half a slug (or even a full slug) trying to scare someone. Blaise used the opportunity to grumble to Daphne, something about the greatest weakness of a boggart really being suggestibility, not numbers. Theo elbowed him and hissed for him to shut up, but it was already too late.

“I heard that, Mr. Zabini. Since you are so eager to share your knowledge of our subject, perhaps you would like to be our first volunteer…?” It very clearly wasn’t a question. Blaise stepped forward with a put-upon sigh, so that he was closest to the trunk. Mary couldn’t help but think that Remus was playing right into Blaise’s hands, even if she didn’t know quite what her fellow Slytherin was planning. “Excellent.” Lupin turned back to the rest of the class and continued lecturing. “The charm that repels a boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind. You see, the thing that really finishes a boggart is laughter. What you need to do is force it to assume a shape that you find amusing.”

Mary caught Blaise rolling his eyes and shaking his head behind the professor’s back. Daphne was glaring at him as though she could stop him from doing exactly what he wanted by force of will alone. Theo edged up between Daphne and Mary and murmured, just loudly enough for Mary to hear, “Relax, Daph. You know he’s more than a match for a boggart.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about, and you know it,” she hissed back.

Lilian, Draco, and Pansy looked over at this. Remus raised an eyebrow. “Am I disturbing your discussion?”

“No, sir,” Daphne and Theo chorused. Mary took a small step away from Daphne. Blaise was grinning from behind Remus now, his eyes sparkling with suppressed mirth.

“Right, then. We’ll practice the spell without wands first. The incantation is _riddikulus_.”

“Riddikulus!” the Slytherins repeated obediently.

“Good. Very good. But that was the easy part, I’m afraid. You see, the word alone is not enough. And this is where you come in, Mr. Zabini.”

“Oh, joy,” Blaise muttered sarcastically, and got an eyebrow-raise for his trouble.

“Right, Mr. Zabini,” Remus said, “First thing’s first: what would you say is the thing that frightens you most in the world?”

“Daphne glaring at me as though she’s going to strangle me after class,” he said promptly, with a confident smirk.

Remus glowered at the boy. “You would do well to take this seriously, Mr. Zabini.”

“I am… _deadly_ serious,” Blaise said, in a fair imitation of Professor Snape, then nodded toward his friend. “Look, she’s wringing my invisible neck, now.”

Daphne was, indeed, making suspicious hand motions, though she stopped when the professor turned to look at her.

Remus sighed, obviously resigning himself to an unsuccessful demonstration. “Very well. And how will you make… angry boggart Daphne… look amusing?”

“I suppose I could dye her hair red and gold again, like the Weasleys did last year.”

“You’re dead to me, Zabini,” Daphne said coldly. She had spent three hours with Gryffindor-striped hair, on the day of the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match. Mary had missed it, between her first-game nerves before the match and her stay in the hospital wing after, but it was well-known that she had contrived to have the Weasleys hexed by a few older Ravenclaws over that little incident. They hadn’t tried it again, and most Slytherins knew better than to bring it up.

Remus ignored her, which Mary thought might have been a mistake. “Right. So you will concentrate hard on the image of Daphne with dyed hair. You will raise your wand – thus –” he demonstrated the wand motion, “and cry _riddikulus_ , and if all goes well, angry boggart Daphne will be forced to assume the Gryffindor colors.” He shot an apologetic look at the girl, who didn’t spare him even a second of her glare. “If,” the professor cautioned, “all does not go well, and the boggart assumes an unexpected shape, step back at once, and allow me to take over.”

“Yes, sir, of course,” Blaise replied, confident smirk still in place.

“Now, if Mr. Zabini is successful, the boggart is likely to shift its attention to each of us in turn. I would like all of you to take a moment now to think of the thing that scares you most, and how you might force it to look comical.”

Mary’s first thought was the smirking, teenaged Riddle, his expression so like Blaise’s, but she quickly thought of the Basilisk, and then Quirrellmort’s mutated skull, and Sirius Black hunting her down, and then…

A rotting, glistening hand, slithering back beneath a black cloak… a long, rattling breath from an unseen mouth… a cold so penetrating that it felt like drowning…

Dementors. They were definitely the scariest thing she could think of.

She looked around, wondering how long they had left. Remus was helping Vinnie and Greg on the other side of the room. “What’s yours?” she whispered to Lilian.

“Sean telling me I’m just a burden to him, I think,” she said, very quietly. “I’m going to make his voice break like it used to when he was our age, if it comes after me. You?”

“Dementors. How do you make a dementor funny?”

“Pink robes and a migraine,” Theo suggested.

“Give it Gilderoy Lockhart’s hair, too,” Lilian added. “What’s yours, Theo?”

“Blaise in a snit after Daphne tears him a new arsehole after class,” he whispered.

“Alright, what do you two know that we don’t?” Mary asked.

“Oh, so many things, Potter.”

“It’s the Dark Arts approach to dealing with boggarts,” Daphne said with a dismissive sniff. “You’ll see. Blaise keeps one of these things as a pet, the sick bastard.”

“And what’s yours, Miss I don’t do Dark Arts where people can see me?” Theo asked scornfully.

“Blaise’s mum when she finds out he’s been showing off,” she suggested with a vindictive scowl in the direction of the boy in question.

Theo shivered. “Yeah, okay, that’s a good one.”

“Everyone ready?” Remus called. Everyone nodded.

“ _Finally_ ,” Blaise drawled.

“On the count of three, then,” Remus pointed his wand at the trunk. “One… two… three… now!”

The lid swung open, and a copy of Daphne crawled out, her features an absolute parody of murderous rage. “I’m going to _kill_ you, Zabini,” it growled. Remus looked slightly surprised that it had actually taken the expected form.

Blaise just raised a bored eyebrow at it, then turned to address the class in his most pompous tone. “Note, the boggart has taken the first form it found in my mind associated with the emotion _fear_. It is not especially difficult to associate different images with this emotion. For example, if I convince myself I am more afraid of inferi…” The boggart shifted behind the boy with a crack like a bad apparition to look like a rotting zombie. “Or, say, the basilisk that was purportedly roaming the school last year…” There was another crack, and an enormous snake appeared, poised behind him, ready to strike. It looked nothing like the basilisk, but Mary supposed that was because Blaise didn’t really know what a basilisk looked like. “The boggart will shift accordingly. It is more difficult to make it shift to something that you’re actually less afraid of, which is why you use the riddikulus spell.”

He turned around to face the boggart and waved his wand negligently in its general direction. _“Riddikulus!”_ It transformed with a loud crack into a tiny black kitten. Blaise picked it up by the scruff of the neck before explaining to the class: “Riddikulus forces the boggart to shift to the shape you determine. It doesn’t have to be especially funny. In fact,” he added with a mischievous glint in his eye, “if you don’t laugh at it and force it away, you can capture it while it’s disoriented. Nott, Malfoy, either of you up for a round of Timore?”

“No,” Remus interrupted before either of the other boys could answer, his calm tone at odds with the sharp look in his eye.

“But –”

“No buts, you’re done.”

“I was just going to –”

“I know perfectly well what you were _just going to_ , and I know how Timore Maxime _always_ ends, and I need that boggart for the Ravenclaw class as well, so hand it over. You’re done.”

“Fine!” Blaise dropped the kitten and stalked back to the sidelines of the classroom. As soon as he was further from it than Remus, the boggart turned into a glowing white orb with a sharp crack.

Remus banished it back to its trunk while he addressed the students. He was obviously angry – enough that he no longer looked nearly as tired – but he kept his temper well, speaking sharply, but not yelling. “The method Mr. Zabini just demonstrated is a more advanced technique for dealing with boggarts, and is widely used when dealing with captured or bound boggarts. Bound boggarts are directed by their masters and are much more difficult to defeat than the standard free boggart, which you are far more likely to encounter throughout your lives. Bound boggarts are class four-X. _If_ we make sufficient progress this term, we may move on to class four and other wizard directed creatures next term, but _at this rate_ , I shouldn’t count on it.

“Bound boggarts are most commonly used as a training tool for Occlumency by certain Old Families, so they are a relatively low priority for defense purposes. They are also, as I do believe Mr. Zabini offered to demonstrate, used in a particularly cruel game called Timore Maxime.” The former Marauder’s level gaze raked over the students, looking for signs of recognition at the name. “I will leave Mr. Nott, Mr. Malfoy… and, yes, I think Miss Greengrass too, to explain it to you later, if they so choose. Mr. Zabini, see me after class.

“Completely aside from the legal issues of allowing a student to demonstrate Shadowmancy for the class – and make no mistake, the Chains of Erebus _is_ Shadowmancy, even if you are using it as a parlor trick or for children’s games – this class is Defense _Against_ the Dark Arts, not _Dark Arts and Defense_ , and we are at Hogwarts, not Durmstrang, so I will _not_ be allowing students to pretend at being dark wizards during our lessons.” Blaise snorted. “You have something to add, Mr. Zabini?”

Faced with a clearly-irritated professor who equally-clearly knew what he was talking about, Blaise evidently decided that not saying whatever he was thinking was the most intelligent option. “No, sir.” He even took a step back and dropped the professor’s gaze first.

Remus glared at the Italian boy, but was quickly distracted as Draco asked the question that was on everyone’s (or at least, apparently, his as well as Mary’s) minds: “How do you know about that game?”

Mary was rather surprised that Remus answered. “Someone I once considered a friend taught me when we were your age.” His tone was so dark that no one dared ask a follow-up question about who that former friend might have been – though Mary strongly suspected it was Sirius Black – and after a moment, the professor continued his lecture.

“Well, now that the kneazle’s out of the bag, so to speak, I suppose I’d better explain the reasoning behind this exercise, otherwise it will never work.

“As Mr. Zabini demonstrated, if one is sufficiently capable of controlling one’s emotions, it is simple enough to trick a boggart into transforming into something you are scared of, but which will not leave you incapacitated with fear. Most students, however, even in Slytherin, do not have such control, and so it is standard practice to prime children who are strangers to the boggart by informing them that it will take the shape of their worst fear, and ask them to focus on a single fear and methods to counter it immediately before releasing the boggart.

“It is _not_ recommended to advise children to _actually_ try to think of their greatest fear. For example, I am certain that at least half of you fear familial disapproval far more than you fear whatever monsters you have been thinking of, were you to truly think about it. After all, an inferius can be set on fire. Lady Narcissa Malfoy’s expression of utter disappointment cannot.”

Draco flushed at this. Mary cringed, recalling Emma Granger’s howler. She might not be Mary’s mother, but the idea of being a disappointment to her still stung.

“Once you have faced a boggart, any subsequent boggarts you face are more likely to take the same shape, as it is engrained in your subconscious as your ‘worst fear,’ even if you are intellectually aware that there are things you truly fear more. For example, if you feared the basilisk Mr. Zabini showed, and the boggart took that form, you would associate that form with boggarts in the future, rather than, for example, your dearest friend lying lifeless on the ground.”

At least half the class shuffled uncomfortably at that.

“Now, however, it is far too late for that.” Mary could have sworn there was a hint of reluctance, or maybe resignation, under Remus’ stern tone, which made her rather nervous. “I could not in good conscience allow you all to address what you _thought_ was the most likely form for your boggart, while subconsciously second-guessing your ‘worst’ fears. It is always better to do so consciously. And now that you are all consciously and explicitly aware of how the boggart works, you must face it, the sooner the better, because, I am sorry to say, worst fears tend to become progressively traumatic as one ages and has more experience with the horrors of the world, not to mention you are more likely to think of worse fears the longer you have to dwell on it.”

“Does that mean we’re still going to do it today?”

“Yes, Miss Bulstrode, that is exactly what it means. Now, in case it was unclear, the purpose of this exercise is to drive the boggart off, not to capture it or force it to discorporate. You will each have one chance to force it into a different shape. I will call you forward in turn, and – yes, Miss Parkinson?”

“Can we do it in private?” Pansy asked, sounding uncharacteristically subdued.

Remus hesitated. “It is commonly thought that facing your boggart in public helps to lay the fear it echoes to rest, so I would not recommend it, but… I suppose. If there is anyone who does not want their boggart seen by the rest of the class, you may come and face it after dinner.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Anyone else want their privacy?”

Vinnie and Tracey raised their hands.

“Right, and who has experience with boggarts? Zabini, Nott, Malfoy?”

All three boys nodded. They could hardly deny it after Blaise had asked them to play that game. Daphne also reluctantly raised her hand. “And me, sir.”

“Okay, so that leaves… Bulstrode, Goyle, Moon, and Potter who have never faced one, and will do so now?” Mary nodded along with the others. “Right, then, I’ll call you up in that order. Greengrass, Malfoy, and Nott can have a turn after that. Crabbe, Davis, and Parkinson, I’ll expect you at my office by seven-thirty this evening. Mind you keep well back while it’s out.

“Bulstrode, front and center.”

Millie walked forward rather reluctantly to stand in front of the trunk. When Remus spelled it open, a horrible caricature of her crawled out: fat, ugly and misshapen. The girl backed away from the twisted vision of herself before closing her eyes and shouting _riddikulus_ at the top of her voice. With a crack, the boggart’s features shifted, the hair becoming lighter as the body shrank to become a parody of a dwarf on teeny, tiny feet, rather than a trollish hulk.

Millicent let out a bark of harsh laughter at whomever the boggart was now pretending to be, and it recoiled.

“Goyle!”

The boy advanced, and the boggart shifted with another crack to become an older, taller boy, who looked like he might have been Greg’s brother. He unbuttoned his robes slowly and reached a hand inside his trousers, fondling himself. It took Greg longer than Millie to react, but when he finally did, the boggart’s clothes vanished, and the boy flushed, recoiling and trying to hide himself as Greg laughed hollowly. Draco and Vinnie clapped him on the back as he retreated.

“Moon!”

Lilian shuffled forward, looking very much as though she would have preferred to be anywhere else. Mary just had time to wonder if it would still be the expected – and entirely horrible – form of her brother rejecting her, with it shifted with a crack to become Aerin, lying on the ground, her neck obviously broken. Lilian hesitated, her eyes filling with tears.

“It’s not real, Lils!” Mary shouted at her from the sidelines.

“ _R-riddikulus!”_ Lilian choked out, and with a crack, the boggart became a marionette, its strings cut, lying on the ground in the same position, but clearly a puppet. “Ha!” she shouted, not really a laugh, but enough to make the boggart flinch away from her.

Remus seemed to think that was good enough, because he called, “Potter!”

Mary’s feet carried her closer and then, with a crack, the boggart became a dementor. A chill began to seep through the room, and Mary could hear screaming in the distance. Somewhat nearer at hand, another voice was yelling, “Potter, you idiot, you gave it mind powers! _Stupefy!_ ”

The next thing she was aware of was the jolt of a Reviving Charm. Lilian was standing over her, wand out, as Blaise argued with Remus over whether it had been appropriate to stun her. His argument seemed to be that stunning Mary was the fastest way to neutralize the threat, while Remus was insisting that it was not Blaise’s responsibility in the first place. Daphne and Theo had cornered the boggart and somehow forced it to turn into Narcissa Malfoy, who was lecturing Draco on the state of his tie. Draco was glaring death at them and insisting that this wasn’t funny at all, but even Pansy was sniggering at the frustrated blond.

“Don’t blame Zabini,” Mary said, dragging her attention back to the professor. “Sir,” she added belatedly. “It’s fine. I’d rather be stunned than have to deal with a dementor. And given our last two Defense professors, you can’t blame him for dealing with it himself.”

Remus gave Mary a look as though she had betrayed him personally by making this already-difficult lesson even harder, but ground out, “Fine,” before turning to tell off Daphne and Theo and reclaim the boggart.

Finally, he announced, “We’re out of time. Everyone read the chapter on boggarts in your textbook, summarize it, and we’ll have the theoretical discussion about them same time next week.”

Mary didn’t think she had ever been happier to leave a classroom.

The only plus side of the whole ordeal was that the third-year Slytherins had judged Remus and found him an acceptable professor. Even Blaise, who had been thoroughly lectured on the ethics of playing sadistic games with magical creatures and assigned a detention copying out all the laws related to Shadowmancy and their legal penalties, admitted later that the professor had handled his heckling extraordinarily well.

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Lilian was apparently too shaken by the dementor ordeal to attempt to corner Mary before lunch for the discussion she had been promising (threatening) since the train. Flint, however, had endured no such trauma, and Mary was forced to flee the Great Hall halfway through the meal, as she still had not thought of a way to break the news to him that she had a prior commitment every Saturday until further notice.

This was complicated by the fact that Mary and the rest of the Conspirators had been directly instructed not to tell anyone about their detentions – such a punishment would raise too many difficult-to-answer questions about what the ten of them had been up to in order to earn it, and it would be very, very bad if the rest of the school found out that they had been drugged by a group of underclassmen. Mary imagined that the week and a half of Slytherin pranking she had endured her first year would pale in comparison, and that was if they didn’t write their parents and demand the Conspirators’ expulsion. Still, Snape had not given them any indication of what they ought to say _instead_ of admitting that they were being punished for what Mary now knew was a Class Four Felony.

Why exactly Lilian wasn’t being stalked by their Captain, or what she had told the older boy, if she had, in fact, already been cornered, Mary had no idea. Finding the answer to that question would mean sitting down and talking to Lilian for more than five minutes, and that was liable to end with awkward questions about what the hell was going on with Snape, which Mary was not prepared to answer. She hated going into a conversation knowing it was only going to end in confusion.

Monday afternoon included the first of Mary’s new electives – Ancient Runes. This and Arithmancy, her other elective, were widely regarded as the most difficult out of the five, so no one seemed to think her an underachiever for taking only two.

Both Runes and Arithmancy would be held with the Ravenclaws. There was such a demand for Runes in Slytherin, where students were responsible for warding their own rooms come fourth year, that it had its own time slot, like the core subjects. Nearly every third-year Slytherin had elected to take it. Arithmancy, which was essential to understanding advanced magical theory, had a similar popularity among Ravenclaws. There were also a smattering of students from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff in each class whose two or three chosen electives overlapped – Mary had overheard Red Patil (who would apparently be joining the Slytherclaw Arithmancy section) complaining to her twin that Gryffindor was scheduled to have Divination, Muggle Studies, and Arithmancy at the same time.

Runes began with discussions of the applications of the subject. Professor Babbling, an old witch with a rather absentminded air and a quiet voice, explained that Runes were used in warding and enchanting (which apparently were not the same thing, though some wards could be considered enchantments, and some enchantments had warding functions). Though ‘Runes’ technically only referred to Futhark and Ogham, the three-year OWL in Ancient Runes also covered Egyptian and Mayan hieroglyphs, a cursive form of Egyptian called Hieratic, and a proto-Greek language called Linear A. NEWT students could choose to study Cuneiform, an Ancient Chinese dialect, proto-Arabic, or Phoenician, which Professor Babbling said was the language of Atlantis, along with practical applications of the scripts. Each symbol in these languages had a variety of meanings, and they could be arranged in a number of ways to express specific meanings in relation to each other.

Learning runes was exponentially more difficult than trying to learn French or Latin, because the symbols could be mixed and matched by any given enchanter to create a more personalized and nuanced composite language, with meanings slightly different from any unmixed language. Real enchanters like Bill Weasley and Devon Troy carved runes into the objects they were enchanting, but the class would learn and practice just by drawing them, and before they could even do that much, they had a lot to memorize. By the end of the first lesson, Mary was beginning to suspect that it was a good thing she had dropped Creatures. Her French was still atrocious after a whole year of practicing, and the thought of learning at least six more languages in the next three years was incredibly daunting. Hermione, of course, was thrilled with the outlined course of study, though Lilian seemed to share Mary’s reservations.

The Slytherins’ first Arithmancy lesson was not held until Tuesday, and sounded more difficult than Runes, if such a thing was possible. Professor Vector had begun the lesson by asking simple maths questions, like what is two plus two, and proceeding to prove the students’ every answer wrong using principles Mary thought had to be made up on the spot. The unholy glee she took in doing so went some way toward illuminating how the apparently nice and outgoing witch could maintain a friendship with the sharp-tongued Professor Sinistra and ever-sarcastic Snape. She then gave them a quiz on their knowledge of muggle arithmetic, geometry, and algebra (which Mary was certain she performed abysmally on, despite her study of Formal Logic over the summer), and finally talked for the rest of the period about the different uses of the subject.

The short summation was that arithmancy allowed a witch to model abstract concepts like time and magic and the development of interpersonal relationships, which were otherwise nigh-impossible to grasp. It had sub-disciplines, like Numerology, which was about the inherent magical principles of numbers, and Prognostication, which was a way of modeling a situation to predict the most likely future outcome. Mostly, though, arithmancy seemed to be used in spell development, modeling magic itself to determine how a new spell could, should, or would work. Third-years would be dividing their time between muggle algebra and geometry on the one hand, and Numerology and Magical Postulates on the other. Fourth-year they would work on diagramming and modeling known spells, and then in fifth year, they would try their hand at spell creation and “disruptive interference” which Mary thought meant countering jinxes and hexes. It was a very intimidating prospect, having the next three years’ topics laid out like that. Prognostication was a NEWT topic, as were curse-breaking and the theoretical mechanics of enchanting. All of that was a far-off dream, however: their first assignment was to memorize a list of arcane symbols, far stranger than anything Professor Babbling had shown them in Runes.

By the end of day Tuesday, Hermione and Lilian had had their other electives once each as well, and they gathered in the library after dinner that night to discuss their initial impressions. Both of the other girls were taking Divination and Care of Magical Creatures, and Hermione was still in Muggle Studies as well, despite Mary’s objections.

Despite her mousy, quiet demeanor, Hermione reported, the professor of Muggle Studies turned out to be quite vocal about her subject. At the Muggleborn Shopping Trip, Mary had hardly noticed her presence, but she had apparently treated her class to a massive rant on all the shortcomings of the program in their first lesson. According to the Ravenclaw, Professor Burbage was muggle raised, and actually knew what she was talking about, but her curriculum, which had been changed every year since she began teaching, was severely limited by what the board of governors and the Headmaster would approve, so it was all quite out of date, and tended to vacillate widely between harmless (and useless) technological studies, like how to use a toaster, and discussions of muggle warfare. The professor claimed that she tried to include things on muggle politics, geography, and finance, and the basics of passing as a muggle, but these were almost always crowded out by new curriculum requirements. The OWL, she said, was mostly concerned with technology, but the questions asked were about thirty years out of date. The Gryffindors had mostly been amused by this, but the Ravenclaws, Hermione included, were concerned that the quality of their education was going to suffer, either because the professor was unwilling to teach them what the Ministry thought they needed to know, or because the Ministry had no idea what they would actually need to know in the muggle world.

Both Lilian and Hermione agreed that Divination was taught by a crackpot, and would contain little to no actual learning. Hermione was highly distressed by this, and was hoping that she would be able to get something out of the book and class exercises, even if Trelawney (whom she had declared after only one lesson did not deserve the title of Professor) was a complete fraud. Kevin Entwhistle, the only other Ravenclaw in her class, was already planning to drop it. Lilian, in contrast, was perfectly happy to treat the lessons as a sort of social networking venue mixed with a creative writing class. She had spent much of her first period chatting with Tracey, Pansy, and the three Hufflepuff girls in the class, learning nothing about divination, but quite a lot about the latest gossip. When Hermione asked despairingly how they were meant to finish their assignment if they hadn’t seen anything in their tea, Lilian told her to just make something up. The ‘professor’ would likely be too drunk to care, anyway, but would probably give bonus points if it was horrible, given that she had predicted the untimely death of a student in both sections. Hermione had looked like she wanted to disagree with this assessment, but couldn’t, because it was likely completely accurate.

Her two friends had given Mary mixed reviews on Care of Magical Creatures. The first lesson had been on hippogriffs, and in Hermione’s section, it had gone off without a hitch. Everything she had to report was surprisingly positive, even if she did think that hippogriffs (half-eagle, half-equine creatures about the size of a centaur) were a bit advanced for their very first lesson. In Lilian’s section, however, the first class had been nothing short of a disaster, even more so than Remus’ first lesson.

It had apparently started off rather poorly, with no one able to open their books. Mary, whose Monster book was currently living (silenced) in its owl cage next to her rubbish bin, could sympathize. She didn’t actually want to throw it out (it somehow seemed wrong to throw away a book, and doubly wrong to throw away a _living_ book), but she was seriously considering trying to foist it off on Madam Pince. She just kept forgetting it every time she left the room. Apparently the trick was to pet the spine, at which the ridiculous, violent things would calm down and consent to be read. Perhaps, she decided, she would look through it before getting rid of it now that she knew this, but she couldn’t see keeping it long-term, even knowing how to read it.

Lilian’s COMC class was mostly Gryffindors, with only a few Slytherins, including Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, along with Lilian and Tracey Davis. Vinnie and Greg had chosen the class because it was one of the easiest, along with Divination. Draco had taken it because there was some Malfoy family tradition of cross-breeding magical creatures, and his father wanted him to continue it, or at least have the OWL to talk about it intelligently at parties. Lilian didn’t know why Tracey had signed up, but, as she said, that wasn’t important to the story, anyway. What _was_ important was that all the third-year Gryffindor boys except Neville Longbottom were also in the class, and the Little Weasel had been singled out as the one to demonstrate how to properly approach a hippogriff. He had followed Hagrid’s instructions and done so successfully. He had even taken Hagrid up on his offer to ride the beast, and been given a quick flight over the lake. (Hermione put in that no one in her class had been so stupid as to accept that offer.)

After Weasley had successfully ridden his hippogriff, Draco, Vinnie and Greg had taken over with it, successfully approaching it, and even petting it, until Draco had said something insulting to it, at which point it had savaged his right arm. He had been bleeding very badly, and Hagrid had carried him up to the infirmary at a run, leaving the rest of the class and the hippogriffs unsupervised. Most of them had had the good sense to back away from their hippogriffs slowly, but the Gryffindor boys had been joking around and very nearly pushed Dean Thomas into the talons of a second one before finally wandering back up to the castle with their biting books.

Rumor had it that Draco had nearly died of blood loss before he reached Madam Pomfrey, and he was blaming Hagrid and the fact that he wasn’t qualified for his position for his injury. While the former claim was questionable, the latter was undoubtedly true. He had supposedly already written his father about the incident, demanding everything from the oaf’s resignation to the death of the hippogriff in question. According to Tracey, who had it from Pansy, he was really hoping that his father would allow him to drop the class (Draco didn’t like the outdoors unless he was on a broom. Watching him try to do Herbology without getting messy was positively hilarious), but if he did manage to get Hagrid fired, he wouldn’t complain.

Mary rather looked forward to watching his little crusade develop over the course of the semester. After all, it was taking place in a class she wasn’t in, so for once, she was certain, she couldn’t possibly be involved, and she liked watching a good drama as much as the next Slytherin.

She was so enamored of this idea that she failed to realize that Hermione had slipped away to return to the Ravenclaw common room until Lilian dragged her into a corner of the stacks and said, “Okay, you. Professor Snape. Spill.”

Mary squirmed uncomfortably under the taller Slytherin’s gaze. “There’s nothing to spill. What’s going on with you and Aerin?” It was even more evident now that the Moon sisters were back in the Castle together that they weren’t getting along.

“She was just pissy because dad said I have more promise with the Infernal Dogs than she does. We made it up after the boggart. Which you would have known if you weren’t avoiding me. And there is so something to spill. If there wasn’t, you wouldn’t have spent two days practically running every time we’re alone together.”

“Ugh!” Mary sighed. “It’s weird, and I don’t even know what’s going on, okay?”

“Well _tell_ me about it!” Lilian sat down with a grin, patting the floor next to herself. Mary joined her rather reluctantly.

She tried desperately to remember what excuse she had given Lilian when she had slipped away to do the lineage test. She failed miserably in the time it took for her hesitation to become obvious. “All right. Remember that day I stayed after Potions last year?”

“Yes,” Lilian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You told me he was asking if you had remembered anything else about the Chamber.” _Ah, yes, that was it._

“Weeeell… He did. And I didn’t. But we got to talking – he’s weirdly talkative if you can get him going – and he mentioned he was friends with my mum. Like, really good friends. Like, he would probably have been my godfather if things had gone differently kind of friends. They met when they were five or so, and, well, it sounded like she was the sister he never had, basically.” Lilian snorted at this. She was, Mary recalled, quite convinced that Snape had been in love with Mary’s mum.  

“So I told him that I thought I would have liked that – mind, I didn’t know then what being a godparent actually means, here in the magical world, but I mean, I still think he would have been a good one – much better than Black, at least, but I don’t know if he knows I didn’t know that then, or if he thinks that I’m thinking of him in basically a parental sort of way or what. Which I wasn’t. Don’t. Whatever. I don’t really think I need a parent at this point. If I did, I might choose him, _maybe_ , I mean, he’s been nice enough to me, always saving my life and stuff, and like, turning a blind eye toward our messes… but I don’t really know how to think of him now that I do know what he meant. Or probably meant.” Mary knew in some distant part of her brain that she should stop and let Lilian get a word in edgewise, but now that she was finally talking about the problem she had been dwelling on for months, she found she couldn’t stop.

“And then he invited me to be informal, and I said yes, because you don’t turn down an offer of informality from _Professor Snape_ of all people, but it’s like, super weird calling him by his first name, and I don’t want to call him ‘Uncle’ or anything, and honestly it’s practically impossible to think of him as anything but a professor and our head of house first, and it’s been bothering me _all summer_.

“And _then_ I saw him at Diagon Alley and he was all _Miss Potter_ like he always has been when everyone was making introductions and greetings, and I don’t know if that was just because it was, like, public, or what, because he called me Mary Elizabeth when I went to talk to him about dropping Hagrid’s class, and I just have no idea where I stand or if this is like some kind of _conditional_ invitation to informality. Merlin and Morgan – some days I just hate all this propriety BS. Lilian, _I’m so confused!_ ” She gave the older girl her best helpless look.

Lilian’s mouth was hanging open a bit, and she started to snigger at her friend’s predicament, even as Mary added, slightly manically, “Oh, and I’m pretty sure he sent me a potions knife as a thirteenth birthday gift, but I don’t know for sure, because the note wasn’t signed. I can’t think of anyone else it might have been, though.”

“So do you call him…” she looked around furtively and then whispered, “ _Severus_?”

“ _NO!_ ” Mary hissed back. “I call him Snape. Or sir. I’m not sure even Professor Sinistra calls him ‘Severus,’” she pointed out with a nervous giggle.

Lilian smirked openly at her. “Is that it, then? _That_ is the secret turmoil that you’ve been hiding for _days_?”

Mary heaved a dramatic sigh. “More or less. About Snape, at least.”

“What else are you not telling me?” the older girl asked in a teasing tone.

Mary shook her head. “Just trying to figure out what to tell Flint about Saturdays. And worrying about Runes. I suck at languages.”

“Oh, cheer up, Liz,” Lilian ordered, rolling her eyes. “It’s only the first week. Just do what I did and tell Flint that you’ll be there on Saturday. We’ll deal with him after we figure out what our official excuse is for Snape. And Sean says ‘that’s what reference books are for.’ You only need to know enough Runes to get through the exams. You can look up anything important when you need it. Now, was that so hard?”

Mary shook her head, and leaned against her friend’s shoulder. It wasn’t, really, not nearly as difficult to tell as it had been to avoid talking about it for a whole two days. She still didn’t know where she stood, but she felt a bit better for having laid it out. It seemed less overwhelming, somehow, now that Lilian knew. For the first time, she seriously considered telling her friends about the Evil, Undead Grandfather Thing, in the hopes that that too would seem less awful if it was shared, but she held her tongue. She rather suspected that telling that secret would have the opposite effect.

“And what have we learned from all this?” Lilian asked rhetorically, hauling Mary to her feet. “You shouldn’t try to avoid me! Now, tell me how you think Jeanie’s making it to all her classes. I’m not stupid! Some of those electives she’s taking are at the same time as other classes, you know!” Speculation about Hermione’s class schedule carried the two Slytherins back to their common room, where Mary promptly ignored Lilian’s advice, and hid from Flint in her room. If she didn’t hear anything about their detentions by the following day, she decided, she would inquire during Snape’s office hours that evening.

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On Wednesday at breakfast, as though Snape had somehow heard Mary’s silent resolution, the Conspirators received notes from him alerting them that their “Tutoring Sessions” would be held on Saturday afternoons for the foreseeable future in Potions Lab 3, beginning at one PM that very week. On learning this, Mary stopped trying quite so hard to avoid Flint. At least now, she thought, she had an excuse to offer him.

He caught up to her at lunchtime, and Mary resolutely informed him that she would only be available in the mornings on Saturday. While this was fine for trials and practices (or would be if they managed to get the same schedule as the year before) it was absolutely _not_ okay for matches.

The captain grew quite irate as she explained that she couldn’t think of asking to reschedule her tutoring sessions for Quidditch, and she finally grew irritated enough herself by his insistence that she told him to talk to Snape if he had such a problem with it. Quidditch was, when push came to shove, only a game, and as much as she loved it, she had other commitments which took precedent. All the nearby Slytherins, and about half of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws within earshot turned to stare at this declaration, and Mary had flushed scarlet with the attention as Flint turned on his heel and stormed off. Lunch, after that, was a lost cause.

By Wednesday afternoon, Mary had attended each of her core classes at least once. Professor Snape had marched them directly into new material. Apparently third year was the point at which he decided that they had proven that they were not all “hopelessly insufferable morons” because if they had been, they would surely have been killed by the castle before now. Since they had not, despite _some people’s_ best efforts (both of the Gryffindor boys’ tables received a stern look at that) he supposed their brains might finally be sufficiently developed to consider the _whys_ of his art, and not merely the _hows_.

All this meant that, for the first time, they had a lesson that was not focused on the technical aspects of brewing (ingredient preparation, stirring techniques, spells to heat or cool or dissolve ingredients and so on) but on the theory behind every choice, from ingredient selection to the timing of every stir. It took a full hour and a half to explain the Boil Cure Potion they had brewed in their very first lesson, and their homework was not only to prepare to brew something entirely different in their practical session, but to find five examples of other potions where one or more of the principles that were used in the Boil Cure Potion were used in similar ways. If this workload was to be maintained throughout the term, Mary was not looking forward to it.

In contrast, much as they had done the previous year, Professors McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick, and Sinistra were beginning with a review of the last concepts they had learned before exams, which lent the impression that nothing had changed in those classes at all. (No one really knew whether Binns was picking up where he left off or not, because no one had really been paying attention to him in the first place.) This provided a core of familiar normality for the somewhat-overwhelmed third-years to cling to in the face of new electives, a daunting extra-curricular schedule and the promise of intra-house upset: Even distracted as she was by her own problems, Mary couldn’t miss that there was a storm quietly brewing among the younger years in regard to their new muggleborn Snake, and it was only a matter of time until it broke, not to mention the fact that if she didn’t fly seeker and the Slytherins lost their first Quidditch match, she would become decidedly unpopular _very_ quickly.

On Wednesday evening, Flint cornered his seeker again and informed her that he had indeed spoken to Snape, and if she made the team (as though there was really any doubt), she would be expected to complete double-hours on Sunday to make up for any “tutoring” she missed due to Quidditch matches on Saturdays. Mary was given to understand that this special dispensation had only been arranged because Snape _really_ wanted Slytherin to win the Quidditch cup, and possibly as a favor to Flint, who would owe their head of house and for which Mary now owed him in turn.

The scorn with which the Captain said “tutoring” suggested that he knew “tutoring” meant detentions, even if Snape hadn’t told him the reasons behind the detentions. Lilian he chewed out for lying to him for a good twenty minutes before finally admitting that she would be given a similar exception, conditional upon her making the starting team.

Both girls thanked him as sincerely as they could, but Mary at least was more than a little irritated. She would rather have let Draco play seeker against Gryffindor than take on yet _more_ detention. She was certain that whatever Snape had come up with over the summer was bound to be terrible.


	9. The Swing of Things

###  Thursday, 2 September 1993

#### Hogwarts

By Thursday, Mary felt that she was getting back into the swing of things. All of her first classes had gone reasonably well, she was no longer avoiding Lilian, the Quidditch-Detention conflict had been (more or less) resolved, and, perhaps best of all, she spotted an intriguing message on the notice board as she made her way to breakfast:

_ATTN: Third-Year Slytherins_  
Please report to Classroom 103 at 7 PM on Friday, 3 September for  
“Slytherin Emergency Resources, Protocols, and Conduct”  
Failure to attend will be noted.

_Prof. Snape_

This, Mary was certain, had to be the “extra class” Turner had mentioned on the train, about which she and Lilian had not been able to discover any additional information. They had, admittedly, not been trying very hard since classes resumed, but every time they had asked any older Snakes, including Sean Moon, they simply gave the younger girls a knowing smirk and said they would find out what it was all about in due time.

Thus, in addition to feeling like her new classes and social life were falling back into place, there was a sense of satisfaction that her curiosity would soon be sated, and the mystery of Snape’s Extra Class would soon be revealed. Much to Mary’s disappointment, she found that this very pleasant feeling was fleeting, lasting only through Charms.

Mary had been regretting betting on Dave Rhees coming to Slytherin, and second-guessing talking up the house at the Muggleborn Shopping Excursion since she heard that he made it in. She was, as she told Lilian at the welcome feast, terribly concerned that the boy was going to have an even worse time of it in Slytherin than she did her first month or so, and she was convinced that this concern was not misplaced. She could sense a storm brewing around the muggleborn firstie – the hostility of the house was evident in the glares of the first and second-years and the cold shoulders of the upperclassmen, who, she had found, were generally content to ignore the first and second-years unless they had a family connection to one of them. She didn’t know how far Professor Snape would be willing to let things progress, but if her own experience was anything to go by, he would not butt in if the students wanted to work things out for themselves, and Mary had a sneaking suspicion that Rhees was stubborn enough to try. It hardly bore mentioning that there was no possible way the he _could_ stand up for himself, given his complete lack of spell knowledge, political connections, or rare abilities known to be passed through the Slytherin bloodline.

On Thursday after Charms, that storm finally broke. Unfortunately, or perhaps very fortunately, from a certain perspective, Mary was the most senior Slytherin present when the break occurred. She had been enjoying her extra free period (while the Hufflepuffs dealt with Remus’ boggart) by exploring the new secret passages which had developed out of the Slytherin tunnels over the summer. It was just her luck that she happened to step out from a portrait in an un-used corridor on the fifth floor just in time to see five of the second-year boys and three of the little first-years, whose names she didn’t know, kicking the unfortunate muggleborn in the middle of the hallway.

She hesitated for a full three seconds before she realized that she really couldn’t allow this to go on, and she had a very good excuse to intervene. Not only were they breaking the first and second rules of Slytherin, getting caught beating one of their own in public, but this definitely crossed the line between hazing and bullying. Rhees probably wouldn’t ask for help any more than she had, or even appreciate her coming to his rescue, but lucky for him, because his attackers were breaking the Truce as well, he didn’t have to. After all, if the Truce went to hell, she would be in just as much trouble as the first-year.

The second-year boys didn’t notice Mary’s presence until she hit the second of them with a body bind. The first she took out with a Trigger-Drop Jinx, summoning his wand when it rolled away, and he hardly noticed, he was so intent on the younger boy.

“Oi!” Rowle, her first victim, shouted as the second one (Higgs) dropped, drawing his friends’ attention as he looked around for his wand. “Get out of here, Potter! This isn’t your business!”

“ _Incarcarious!”_ she shouted in response, directing the spell at the tallest of the boys. With three armed opponents to go (and seven free to try kicking the crap out of her instead of Rhees), she was hardly about to waste time with witty banter. Did he think she was stupid?

Her conjured ropes missed Carmichael by a good foot, and she had to dodge his stunner in return. _Damn!_ She had forgotten how many spells the purebloods knew, even at the beginning of second year. Young and Davis began to copy him, and Mary decided to pull out one of the few area-attack spells that Catherine had taught her over the summer.

“ _Lumax!_ ” She covered her own eyes at the last possible moment, so as not to give away the purpose of the incantation. The boys screamed as they were blinded by the sudden flash of light, easily twenty times as bright as her standard Light Charm. She was blinking away tears and light-spots herself, despite the protective arm which had shielded her from the blast, as she quickly _Incarcerated_ the remaining second-years, silenced the lot of them, and shoved their wands into her pocket.

The firsties tried to run – after only three and a half days in the castle, even the purebloods with their comparatively impressive collections of schoolyard jinxes clearly didn’t feel prepared to fight back against a third-year who had taken out five second-years – but they still couldn’t really see where they were going, and they were apparently scared enough to stop when she threatened to haul them back by their shorts.

“Get back inside and wait for me in the common room!” She ordered. She was so angry she wasn’t certain until they started helping each other up instead of cowering in fear that she hadn’t been speaking Parsel. “Not that way!” she snapped as they looked around in confusion and headed for the nearest staircase. It wouldn’t do at all to be caught reprimanding the baby snakes herself. < _Open >_ she snarled at the secret passage, and stood guard over it as the three first-years carried the petrified Higgs past her, followed by the four other, hobbled boys. “Don’t even _think_ of hiding away in your rooms unless you want me taking your wands to Snape over this!” she warned them. The nearest second-year, Carmichael, cringed and nodded.

When the offenders were safely out of earshot, the portrait closed behind them, Mary helped their victim to his feet.

“I didn’t need your help,” he said sullenly, cradling one arm gingerly with the other.

“I didn’t do it for you,” she scoffed, running an experienced eye over his still-hunched form. Assuming the pampered purebloods didn’t kick any harder than Dudley and his gang, it was probably mostly bruises, and maybe a cracked rib or two, aside from his arm and a spectacular black eye that was already puffing up. He seemed to have been protecting his stomach well enough.

He snorted at this, and then winced at the sudden exhalation.

“What is the first rule of Slytherin?” she asked patiently. Before he could answer, she added, “Or the second? Who do you think is Public Enemy Number One for the Dark houses if the Truce goes out the window?”

He nodded warily after a long moment.

“D’you know where the hospital wing is?”

“Second floor?”

“Yeah, east wing. Towards the mountains. Pomfrey’s good about not asking questions if you don’t want to answer. Ask a portrait if you get lost, or a Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. I’ve got to go take care of those wankers before Higgs and Davis get their older sibs to let them go.”

Dave nodded again, setting his mouth in a grim line and hobbling toward the stairs. Mary shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t run into any more disgruntled Slytherins on his way down to Pomfrey, and hissed at the secret passage again. As she swung the portrait – a rather comely young lady dancing with a great ball python wrapped around her torso and shoulders – out to slip behind it, she heard the boy call, “Hey, Potter?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” she waved him toward the stairs and pulled the portrait closed behind her.

She reached the Common Room just in time to hear Tracey say, “Yeah, twerp, but I’m not cancelling this until you tell me who hexed you and why.”

“None of your business!” the younger Davis snapped.

“Well, then,” Pansy drawled, “I hardly see that it’s our business to help you out, is it?”

“Was it the Gryffindor Lackwits?” That was Draco, and he sounded as though he rather hoped it had been. ‘The Gryffindor Lackwits’ was his latest nickname for the Weasley-Longbottom duo; their feud had been heating up again as rumors spread that Draco was looking to have Hagrid fired over their first COMC lesson.

“No,” a pouty, younger voice answered. “It was Mary Potter. Bloody traitor, she is.”

There were murmurs of agreement from the other first and second-years, though the third-years held their tongues. Mary stalked into the room before her classmates could decide whether or not to take the child at his word. “Care to explain to them _why_ I had to kick your stupid little arses?” she asked the boys, assembled in a little huddle before Draco and his clique.

None of the underclassmen spoke up.

“So you wouldn’t care to describe how the _eight_ of you were beating on a muggleborn first-year? A _fellow Slytherin_ , mind. In a _public corridor_ , where _anyone_ could have seen you? Slytherin only has _three rules_ , and you managed to break them all this morning.” There was a snort from Pansy’s direction, but Mary didn’t dare let herself be distracted from the troublemakers. If Pansy had a problem, they could sort it out later.

“I’ll break it down for you, you squibby little arsewipes, because I’m not sure you’re smart enough to get it: I don’t care if you think Rhees belongs here or not, the Hat said he did, and _you three at least,”_ she pointed at the firsties, “were there when Snape all but said he was off limits, _because he’s a Slytherin_. It’s the _first fucking rule_ of Slytherin House that we handle our shite in private. In public, we present a united front, or the rest of the bleeding school will rip us apart.

“Then, _then_ , you useless little _wankers_ thought you’d carry out your little beating in a public corridor, breaking the second rule, because you _bloody_ well got caught. And you’re fucking _lucky_ you got caught by me, and not Snape or one of the prefects or one of the fucking Gryffindors – Rhees wouldn’t be the only one in the hospital wing if one of them had caught you beating on a muggleborn, even if he is a Snake.

“Why? Because of the _fucking_ Truce! You little jackasses think you’re exempt? Even fucking Malfoy here can’t get away with that kind of bullshite!”

“Hey! I resent your implication!” Draco interrupted, but only momentarily, because she immediately hissed at him: < _Shut up, little mouse! >_ He swallowed hard, as all the younger boys flinched. Vinnie and Greg didn’t, which made her think more highly of them, though their eyes did widen slightly.

“Cleo’s asps, Malfoy. And I’m sure I needn’t remind you of the little intervention Zabini held after you brought up Longbottom’s parents?” Malfoy made a rude hand gesture at her, but stayed quiet. The girls, Mary noted, looked amused by her little tirade.

“In case you _absolute_ _morons_ need a refresher, you don’t get to pick on muggleborns, half-bloods, or blood traitors just because they’re muggleborns, half-bloods and blood traitors! We don’t talk about the war, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean it didn’t happen! So unless you want me to give your names to the Weasley Terrors as _acceptable targets_ , you _will_ follow the code!”

“It was just a little hazing,” one of the braver first-years grumbled.

“’ _Hazing’_ stays in Slytherin,” Mary informed him, making sarcastic air-quotes, “and fucking first-years don’t get to ‘ _haze’_ each other. Idiot. Even if this _had_ been hazing, you crossed the line into _bullying_ when it became _eight_ of you little dung-brains on one!

“This is your first and final warning,” she concluded, breathing somewhat heavily after yelling more than (she was fairly certain) she ever had before in her life. “Call me a traitor all you damn well please, but I am the Heir of Slytherin, and you _will_ keep the Truce, or I will _personally_ make sure you regret it. Threefold,” she added for good measure, before throwing the second-years’ wands into a pile on the nearest unoccupied sofa, and spinning on her heel. She stalked off before any of the shocked-looking underclassmen or her variously amused, alarmed, or startled peers could get a word in edgewise.

A slow clap accompanied her as she disappeared down the tunnel to her room to fetch her Potions book. She didn’t bother looking around to see who it was, but she suspected Zabini, or maybe Snark, the now-fourth-year who had been a reserve beater on the Quidditch team the year before. They shared a similar sense of humor.

She decided that it would be in her best interests to make herself scarce until class, while she mulled over the likely fall-out from her little rant. She spent the rest of the morning and all of lunch wandering the corridors, thinking and reigning in her growing sense of trepidation as she realized that regardless of how her own yearmates reacted, she had probably just made herself very, very unpopular with at least three-quarters of her house, and depending on exactly how stupid the underclassmen were, she might very well be fending off sneak-attacks all term.

_Balls._

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Lilian found Mary about twenty minutes before class, falling into step without a word, and letting the silence persist for nearly two minutes before she delivered the news that Pansy had spilled the beans at lunch on Mary’s little intervention. The pug-faced girl apparently told everyone that Mary was taking up for muggleborns and had soundly beaten eight underclassmen in a duel on Rhees’ behalf. The news hadn’t been particularly well-received. The elder Higgs, Mary’s predecessor on the Quidditch team, apparently wanted to have a talk with her, and it was probably a good thing that Rhees hadn’t yet returned from the Hospital wing. Mary’s only response was a heavy groan. She had truly been hoping that, aside from the threat of Sirius Black and the consequent looming dementors, this would be a quiet year.

At least there was little discussion in Snape’s class of the utter hash she had made of that plan. Draco seemed to be far more concerned with his ongoing plan to force his father to let him drop COMC than intra-Slytherin politics. To that end, he was now going around with his arm in a sling, moaning about how very injured he was (even though there couldn’t possibly be anything medically wrong with him anymore). This had the amusing (and distracting) side-effect of giving him an excuse to ask Snape to force one of the Gryffindors to do all of his ingredient preparation in potions, which Snape seemed to enjoy. He especially seemed to appreciate the chance to take twenty points from Gryffindor when Neville managed to cut himself while peeling Draco’s shrivel fig “for ruining valuable ingredients by bleeding on them, a situation which could easily have been avoided if you had been following proper knife-wielding procedure.” He had made the nervous Gryffindor stutter out an explanation of exactly what he had done wrong (cutting toward himself, rather than away) before he was allowed to go to the Hospital Wing.

Draco’s moaning and generally being an attention-seeking distraction didn’t end with class. The arguments and hallway hexes between Weasley and Longbottom and Draco’s clique had increased in frequency and violence throughout the week, to the point that words were exchanged, at the very least, any time they were unsupervised for more than twenty seconds. Mary wouldn’t have minded this, especially in light of the fact that it was diverting the attention of her fellow Slytherins from herself (plus sometimes Draco just really needed to be hexed, and when he had been whining about a fake injury for days was one of those times), but she and her friends kept getting caught in the cross-fire, since the Gryffindors still hadn’t got it through their thick skulls that just because they were all in Slytherin, didn’t mean they were all the same person and responsible for Draco’s stupidity.

By dinner, Draco had declared his intentions to get Hagrid fired for real, just because the Gryffindor Lackwits were so intent on saving him. Mary and Lilian had shared a groan at this. Mary, at least, was thinking that she was about to become a target not only to the blood supremacists in Slytherin, but also to the rest of the school (again) for being a Slytherin and an unfortunate member of Draco’s year. She was fairly certain Lilian just couldn’t stand the stupidity of Draco’s declaration.

“You’re being a moron!” she had yelled at him across the common room as soon as they returned from the Great Hall. “The hippogriffs were awesome until you ruined it!”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Moon!” he had shouted back.

Mary lost track of their argument after that, because Terry Higgs managed to sneak up behind her at that point. “Miss Potter,” he growled under his breath. “We need to have a word.”

Mary turned around to find not only the former seeker, but his friend Xander Young, their fellow sixth-year Sandra Bletchley, Marcus Flint (who looked almost as irritated as he had the day before, when he confronted her about her “tutoring sessions”), fourth-year Claudius Burke, and, obviously feeling somewhat lost and out of place among the older students, Tracey Davis. Chess and Morgana, looking nearly as nervous as Tracey, hovered near the edge of the group. _Well, shit._ “What about?” Mary asked, as coolly as she could manage.

“A private word, Potter,” Flint qualified.

“Sixth-year girls’ parlor is open,” Miss Bletchley volunteered.

Mary was not comfortable with this at all. She shifted awkwardly as she tried to think of a way out of what she was certain was about to become a ‘hazing’ ritual of her own.

Flint seemed to know what she was thinking. “You don’t want to have this… _conversation_ in public,” he advised her.

She bit her lip in unconscious imitation of Hermione, but followed when Miss Bletchley led the way into one of the tunnels, surrounded by the other upperclassmen. He was right. If she had to take a beating, she’d rather it not be in front of the entire common room. That would ruin any credibility she might have with the younger years entirely. She just hoped Flint cared enough about his seeker to stop the rest of them doing any permanent damage.

The dorm room to which she was taken was slightly crowded, but neatly appointed, with several large, squashy sofas and low coffee tables, as well as a small serving table with a tea-service for six. Two of the girls must have moved in together to free up the space, though Mary didn’t know enough about the politics of the sixth year to guess which two might have volunteered (or been volunteered by their peers) to double up, or how they managed to fit two beds in one room, given that the rooms were _not_ that large.

The sixth-years re-arranged the furniture at Flint’s direction while Mary stood by, watching in confusion, flanked by the prefects. When the group finally took their seats, she found herself in a hard, upright chair transfigured from the serving table, facing two couches full of variously irritated and bored-looking upperclassmen (and the still-nervous Tracey). The prefects stood behind a coffee table, which had been transfigured to the proper height as a sort of extended lectern, each of them with a roll of parchment and a dicta-quill at the ready. _What the hell is going on?_ she wondered, but before she could ask, Flint stood, addressing the prefects.

“In accordance with the by-laws of Slytherin house, the assembled come before the Slytherin prefects for fair hearing and just settlement.”

Mary’s jaw nearly hit the floor. They were after _official_ punishment for her? An incredulous “Seriously?” slipped out, but she silenced herself at the Quidditch captain’s glare.

“Proceed, Mr. Flint,” Chess said formally.

He did so. “I speak on behalf of the families of the aggrieved: Flint, Burke, Bletchley, Young, Higgs, and Davis. Carmichael and Rowle have no family representation here today to witness, but it is understood that as their scions will also be affected by this ruling, I speak in their interest as well.”

“Who speaks on behalf of the accused?” Chess asked.

“That’s you, Mary,” Morgana added. Mary couldn’t tell by her tone if she meant to be helpful or not.

_Fine._ Mary stood. “I speak on behalf of myself, Mary Elizabeth, Heir of House Potter. What the hell am I being accused of, here?”

“Shut up, Potter!” Burke snapped from a sofa. “We’ll get there.”

The prefects and Flint sent warning glares at both of them.

“Mr. Flint,” Morgana said coolly, “Please state the charges against the accused.”

“Mr. Augustus Flint, Mr. Lester Burke, and Mr. Travis Bletchley, Slytherin first-years, accuse Miss Potter of threatening them with Parseltongue, public embarrassment, threats of physical and magical harm, and unsanctioned dueling. Mr. Ignotius Carmichael, Mr. Travis Young, Mr. Edward Rowle, Mr. William Higgs, and Mr. Roderick Davis, Slytherin second-years, accuse Miss Potter of use of magical force against an unarmed opponent, use of the Dark Arts, breach of the First and Second rules of Slytherin House, and breach of the truce, in addition to the accusations of the first-years.”

“Those lying little bastards!” Mary exclaimed. This was met with a wall of sound as the five seated students leapt to their feet, objecting to her calling their younger brothers and cousins liars. Flint just crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at her. Order was restored after several minutes, when Morgana created a sound like a thunder-clap with her wand.

“Miss Potter,” Chess said firmly, “these are very serious accusations. If you continue to interrupt, you will be silenced outside of your turn to speak.”

Mary nearly asked her former team mate and fellow ex-conspirator if they really believed this, but managed to hold her tongue.

“Miss Potter,” Morgana began, after a beat of silence to prove that Mary was going to comply. “Do you affirm or deny these accusations?”

“Erm… can you repeat the list?” Mary had to ask. She was sure that some of them were untrue, but she definitely had threatened all of them in the common-room, and Tracey had been there to see that, so she couldn’t deny all of it outright.

Morgana nodded slightly and gave her the tiniest of smiles. Apparently this was a right answer. “Threatening the first and second-years with Parseltongue.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, but deny.”

“Why doesn’t it make sense?” Flint asked.

Mary snorted when she realized that no one was going to reprimand _him_ for talking out of turn. “Parsel is a language, and I’m the only person in this school who speaks it,” she pointed out. “You’re making it sound like I threatened to speak it at them, which is about as scary as threatening to speak French at them. Maybe less, since I can be insulting in French, and they wouldn’t have a clue what I was saying in Parsel.”

“Move to re-word the accusation to ‘Threatening the aggrieved _in_ Parseltongue,’” Flint said, rolling his eyes.

“Approved,” Chess agreed, and Morgana nodded. Mary sighed. That still didn’t make sense, because, as she had just said, none of the younger students would know what she was saying, so they couldn’t say it was a threat. Besides, she was pretty sure the only person she had actually spoken Parsel to was Draco.

“I still deny it,” she said, and Morgana moved on.

“Publically embarrassing the first and second-years.”

“What counts as publically?” Mary asked. “We were in an open corridor at first, but there were no witnesses, and then I dressed them down in the Common Room, but most everyone was in class.”

“Affirm,” Chess decreed.

“I was going to say deny,” Morgana hissed.

The prefects began to bicker in harsh undertones. “Chess! Yaxley!” Flint interrupted after a minute. “Mark it as NCD, and _move on_.”

Both prefects glared at the Quidditch captain, but apparently did as he suggested.

“Threats of physical and magical harm,” Morgana read off.

“Affirm. What does NCD mean?”

“It means you neither confirm nor deny the accusation due to ambiguity in the accusation and the chain of events that needs to be resolved in the debate,” Higgs explained from the sidelines, in a tone suggesting Mary was an idiot for not knowing.

“Unsanctioned dueling against the first and second-years,” Morgana pressed forward.

“Neither confirm nor deny,” Mary smirked.

“Use of magical force against an unarmed opponent.”

“Deny.” All of the little shits had been armed when the fight started.

“Use of the Dark Arts.”

“Deny.” Mary couldn’t even imagine what they were calling “Dark Arts.” None of the spells she had used were dark.

“Breach of the First Rule.”

“Deny.” She was sure it didn’t count as breaking the First Rule if she was intervening to stop _them_ from continuing to break it.

“Breach of the Second Rule.”

“Deny.” That was just ridiculous. She hadn’t been caught doing anything. They had just accused her of all the things she caught the underclassmen doing.

“And breach of the Truce.”

For this one, Mary pulled out all the stops, and with her best Snape impression declared, “Deny. Categorically.”

“All right,” Morgana looked back at her list. “So we have to debate the accusations of public embarrassment and unsanctioned dueling, and determine a punishment for threatening physical and magical harm. Does the speaker for the families aggrieved wish to pursue further any of the accusations denied?”

“The speaker for the families aggrieved seeks recess for counsel,” Flint declared.

The prefects nodded as though this was expected, and Chess said that they could have five minutes to discuss. Morgana started a timer. Flint cast some sort of privacy spell around the two sofas, and Mary watched with the prefects as the upperclassmen fell into a silent argument.

“Morgana? Chess? What the hell is going on?” she asked plaintively once they were firmly distracted.

Morgana sniggered. “Well, all the little dung-brained squiblets you beat up went crying to their older siblings and cousins, and most of _them_ want to scalp you for the insult to their families or use this as an excuse to take a swing at you outside the Truce. Flint knows you, obviously, and doesn’t actually want his star seeker constantly under attack, so he’s taken up on your side, which is lucky, because as the oldest defendant and the representative of the oldest House you offended, he’s more or less in charge of their side, and was able to force them into this, rather than jumping you in one of the abandoned corridors.”

Mary nodded. That was slightly reassuring, but it didn’t really answer her question. “But what’s with the mock court thing?”

“Slytherin by-laws,” Chess explained. “There’s a formal protocol for bringing grievances to the prefects for settlement, even though it’s hardly ever used. It’s more or less based on the way the Wizengamot tries cases, but instead of the Minister and the Representatives voting on the outcome and punishment, we do that. And since there’s only the two of us, we have to come to a consensus,” he added, making a face.

Now that he mentioned it, Mary did recall reading something about the Slytherin by-laws back at the very beginning of her first year, but she had put most of it out of her head, because recourse to formal reparations and self-government in general was reserved for third-year students and up. If she remembered correctly, the reason given in the handbook was that first and second-years were not considered responsible enough to bring only serious matters before the prefects’ council, which she had thought was very patronizing at the time, but just talking to the prefects or their Head of House informally was much simpler, so she hadn’t been _that_ offended. Now, facing the spurious accusations of a handful of midgets (even indirectly, through their older relatives), she could see the sense in that rule.

“How’d you get stuck playing judge and jury?” she asked, somewhat curious as to how she had managed to get the only pair of prefects she knew personally as her judges when she hadn’t realized that she was going to be on trial at all.

“Arbitrators,” Morgana corrected. “And either Flint is sabotaging his own side, or Farley and Moon threw us to the kraken as the newbies.”

“Could be both,” Chess speculated.

Mary bit her lip. “What comes next?”

“That lot need to decide which, if any, of the denials they want to pursue. We’ll ask for the series of events, and debate any discrepancies between what they claim and what you claim happened. You have the advantage there, since none of the aggrieved are actually old enough to testify, so it’s all hearsay on their side, but they’ll probably try to claim you’re making it up because it’s your word against that of a bunch of kids who can’t be here,” the boy explained.

“Great. Any advice?”

“Ask for a Truth Charm,” Morgana suggested. “After the sequence of events, we debate whether your actions fit the definition of any of the accusations. You do get to defend yourself at that point. And then Chess and I have to declare a recess to deliberate and go work out a punishment based on the Big Book of Precedents. Depending on how long that takes, we’ll let you know either right away, later tonight, or tomorrow at lunch what it’s going to be.”

Mary sighed. She was probably going to end up with even more detention, but that beat getting cursed into hospital by the upperclassmen by a long mile.

In due time, Chess announced that they needed to resume, and Flint declared that they would drop the Parseltongue and Dark Arts accusations, leaving only the most serious offences to defend. Morgana requested the sequence of events, first from Flint, then from Mary. The story Flint recounted had the eight underclassmen loitering innocently in the fifth-floor corridor, the second-years showing their younger friends around the castle, when Mary appeared and began an unprovoked attack. The long-suffering tone in which he reported made it clear that even he didn’t believe that was really what happened.

It was still infuriating. Mary was stewing by the time it was her turn to speak. “That’s not what happened at all!” she blurted out when Flint finally finished recounting her storming out of the common room, leaving a quivering group of underclassmen behind her.

“It’s your word against my little brother and his friends,” Flint pointed out.

“Ugh! Fine, then!” She nearly stamped her foot in frustration. “I request a Truth Charm to verify my account of the events in question,” she snapped, sitting back in her uncomfortable chair, ready to stubbornly refuse to say anything more until they complied.

After nearly ten minutes of debate on which charms to use, who should cast them, whether Mary might be an occlumens capable of fooling said charms, and exactly how much of an idiot Sandra Bletchley had to be to make such a suggestion, Chess and Flint each cast the Venetian Veracity Indicator on her, and the others took turns asking questions to ensure they had done it correctly. Their wands glowed with white light that shifted green when she told the truth, red when she lied, and a whole range of other shades when she was unsure of the answer or intentionally tried to omit pertinent information. It was, she thought, a very cool spell. She would have to ask Morgana why they hadn’t just used that instead of Veritaserum the year before.

Mary told the whole truth and nothing but the truth about the day’s events, both her accuser’s and the judge’s wands glowing a cool green throughout.

Flint, it seemed, had not been expecting anything less, because he just rolled his eyes at Mary, Morgana, and Chess before addressing the arbitrators. “As the speaker for the aggrieved, I hereby move to drop the charges of breaching the first and second rules and the Truce, and attacking unarmed students.”

“Approved,” Chess nodded, and Morgana confirmed, “Noted.”

The older students grumbled among themselves for a moment, but none of them objected. Tracey looked even more embarrassed and uncomfortable than she had at the beginning of the inquiry.

Morgana consulted her notes before she spoke again: “The floor is now open for debate on the counts of public embarrassment.”

Bletchley tried to make a case that it was unwarranted to call her little brother a squib in front of whomever might have been listening in the common room, but Flint overrode her with a glare. “We’ll drop that one, too.” Insulting other students in public might have been offensive, but it was nothing which actually required arbitration, and if Bletchley retaliated with hexes on behalf of her brother, it would only fuel rumors that he really was squibby, and unable to do so himself.

“Right, then,” Chess grinned. “Moving on, debate on the counts of unsanctioned dueling.”

“It wasn’t a duel,” Mary objected before any of the others could. “I was defending the truce and a Slytherin first-year.”

Higgs snorted. “That mudblood hardly counts as a Slytherin, so far as I’m concerned.”

Burke apparently agreed. “Where do you get off hexing proper scions of pureblood houses on behalf of a muggle piece of shite like that?” he asked, obviously rhetorically.

“Obviously she always was a blood traitor, Claude,” Bletchley answered, glaring at Mary.

“She’s not, though,” Young said quietly, speaking for the first time since they entered the room, Mary thought.

“Oh, belt up, Young,” Burke demanded of the older boy.

Young just raised an eyebrow at him, the degree of condescension in his expression worthy of Snape. “I think you will find, Burke, that ‘Blood Traitor’ in a legal context refers to those who have betrayed their family in word or deed, regardless of the broader social connotations it has taken on in the past three decades.” Burke and Bletchely both blushed furiously. “As the only remaining scion of the House of Potter, it is, in fact, impossible for Miss Potter to be a Blood Traitor. Refusal to adhere to your political philosophy is not sufficient grounds for such a denigration of her character.”

“Thank you, Xander,” Flint said courteously, as Higgs glared daggers at his friend. “Do any of you have anything else to add to the debate? Anything _relevant_ ,” he added, as Bletchely opened her mouth again. She closed it.

Burke tried one more time. “If the muggle can’t take care of himself, he doesn’t deserve to be in Slytherin!”

“Bullshit!” Mary snapped. “The Hat put him here, and it’s not like he was wingeing and begging for help like _your_ useless excuses for relatives. I intervened because the Truce is sacred. If you all want to throw it out the window and make Hogwarts into a war-zone, go ahead, but it’s all or nothing.” She crossed her arms and threw herself back into her chair. As far as she was concerned, that was the crux of the matter: they had broken the Truce, and she had defended it, as was the right and responsibility of anyone who valued the relative state of peace it allowed Magical Britain to maintain.

“She has a point,” Flint said, with a pointed look at the others. Young and Tracey nodded (the latter somewhat hesitantly) while Burke, Bletchley, and Higgs refused to meet his eye. “If there are no further points to be made, the aggrieved rest their debate.” None of the representatives of the aggrieved protested.

“Does the accused also rest the debate?” Morgana asked.

“Umm… yes?” Mary certainly couldn’t think of anything else to add.

“Right, then. We’ll take a short recess for discussion,” Chess declared before performing some kind of silencing charm on himself and Morgana. Their words fuzzed out into a buzz of white noise. Mary watched them carefully as they apparently debated whether the various charges would stick. After a few minutes, Morgana pulled a shrunken book out of her bag and enlarged it to the size of a paving stone. They cast several spells on it, hurriedly flipping pages, and apparently arguing over what had to be precedents.

On the other side of the room, Flint had cast a similar charm, and appeared to be defending himself to an irate Bletchley and Burke. Higgs looked grumpy, but not nearly as angry as the other two. He was just glaring at Young as though the other sixth-year had betrayed him by pointing out that Mary wasn’t actually a Blood Traitor just because she wasn’t a blood purist, though Mary herself was fairly certain he had only said that because Burke had been such a wanker, having the gall to tell a sixth-year to belt up.

After about ten minutes of these silent plays, Chess and Morgana apparently reached an agreement, and he cancelled their spell.

“Oi, Flint!” Chess called, the formality with which he had begun the proceedings suffering somewhat as they wore on. “Recess is over.”

The opposing side quickly doused their arguments, and Flint rejoined Mary in standing before the arbitrators.

“We do not uphold the accusation of unsanctioned dueling,” Chess announced. “However, the testimony of the accused does bear evidence of one incident of unsupervised use of magic in the corridors and five counts of unsupervised use of magic on another student. Given the spells listed under truth charm, with no indication of falsehood or withholding of information, there appears to have been no intent to harm.”

“Following the established precedents,” Morgana took over, “we assign one one-hour detention for each of these counts, along with half an hour for each of the eight counts of threats of physical or magical harm which the accused has affirmed, for a total of ten hours, to be served with the Head of Slytherin house, or as he so delegates.”

“Also following the testimony of the accused, we find Mr. Ignotius Carmichael, Mr. Roderick Davis, and Mr. Travis Young culpable in one incident of unsupervised use of magic in the corridors. We find Mr. Ignotius Carmichael, Mr. Roderick Davis, Mr. William Higgs, Mr. Edward Rowle, Mr. Travis Young, Mr. Travis Bletchley, Mr. Lester Burke, and Mr. Augustus Flint culpable in one count each of deliberate physical harm to another student.”

“Given the relative ages and competency of the students, in accordance with the established precedents, we assign Mr. Ignotius Carmichael, Mr. Roderick Davis, and Mr. Travis Young eleven hours of detention each; Mr. William Higgs and Mr. Edward Rowle ten hours of detention each; and Mr. Travis Bletchley, Mr. Lester Burke, and Mr. Augustus Flint five hours of detention each, to be served with the Head of Slytherin House, or as he so delegates,” Morgana concluded in a steely tone.

“Furthermore,” Chess said with a nervous swallow, “We issue an official warning to the representatives of the families aggrieved, Mr. Marcus Flint, Miss Sandra Bletchley, Mr. Terrence Higgs, Mr. Alexander Young, Mr. Claudius Burke, and Miss Tracey Davis. Seven of the nine accusations for which you demanded arbitration were dropped over the course of the questioning and debate, constituting a spurious waste of time. Should you bring such spurious charges for arbitration in the future, you risk punishment for wasting the prefects’ time.”

Flint nodded as though this was only expected, which caused Chess to relax significantly. The others’ expressions ranged from mildly irritated to red-faced and furious.

Morgana smirked at them. “Should the aggrieved or the accused wish to appeal the decision of this arbitration, you may do so at the full Prefects’ Council on the fifteenth of September or directly with the Head of Slytherin House. Unless and until such an appeal is made, the matters discussed tonight shall be considered settled, with no retaliation by either party outside of the punishments delivered. Representatives of the families aggrieved, please make it clear to the aggrieved that retaliation will be considered a blow to the authority of the Slytherin Prefects, and will be punished accordingly, in addition to the standard punishment for the retaliatory actions.”

Flint bowed slightly to the arbitrators. “Thank you, prefects.” He ushered the rest of his side out the door without another word.

Mary followed warily. Apparently Flint sent them back to the Common Room, because he caught her alone just outside to say, “You owe me, Potter.”

Mary nodded. If she understood everything that had just happened (and she wasn’t sure she did), Flint had just made certain that neither the first and second-years nor their families could start hexing her in the corridors for her actions that morning, at least without getting in a lot of trouble for bringing up issues that the prefects had officially declared settled. She needed to re-read the Handbook before she could be certain, but on the whole, owing Flint (another) favor and ten hours of detention seemed like a relatively light punishment, given the weeks of torment to which she had nearly resigned herself before the arbitration. “Thanks, Flint,” she said quietly.

He gave her the snort of approval that generally followed a perfectly executed drill at Quidditch practice. “Gus was being a whiney little brat,” he said. “The Truce is more important than being able to brag to Father about putting a muggleborn in his place.”

“Are you going to get in trouble for helping me?” she had to ask.

“No more than for getting you out of Snape’s detentions. You _are_ the Slytherin seeker, after all,” he reminded her. “But you still owe me.”

“Yeah, alright,” Mary smirked, deciding that she was, on the whole, pleased with the day’s work.

###  Friday, 3 September 1993

#### Hogwarts

Mary was less pleased the following morning, when she received a note at breakfast informing her that Snape had already scheduled her additional hours of detention: that very evening, from eight to ten, Monday and Wednesday from seven to ten, and next Friday from eight to ten as well. She groaned and let her head drop to the table with a dull _thunk_.

“What’s wrong?” Lilian asked, adding liberal amounts of honey to her tea.

Mary shoved the note at her without a word, refusing to raise her head.

She could hear the older girl grinning as she said, “Could be worse. At least you’re getting it over with, yeah?”

That was, she had to admit, true. And the note said to report to Snape’s office, rather than to Filch, so there was some hope that the punishment wouldn’t be completely horrible. Lines, or sorting ingredients, maybe, instead of scrubbing floors or polishing armor. But it was still an awful lot of hours to fit into the first real week of classes, never mind their Saturday detentions, from one until whenever it was over. With her new classes, she already had much less free time on her hands than in her previous years. At this rate, she would have to spend every free second of the next week working on homework.

“Next time you see me about to do something nice for someone, remind me of this,” she grumbled into the table.

“Sure thing!” Lilian said, too brightly for the early hour, and Mary groaned at her again, as dramatically as she could, before hauling herself off to Arithmancy.

In an attempt to be at least somewhat responsible with her time, Mary retired to the library between her morning classes to begin the homework which was already piling up for Monday and Tuesday. She had only just begun her first Charms essay of the year when a series of Honking Hexes struck her from behind. Madam Pince, never one to show mercy even to those whose disturbances were not their own fault, threw her out at once. The caster of the hexes did not follow her out, so Mary couldn’t have said whether it was one of the third-year Gryffindors, who were now declaring some sort of war over Malfoy’s insistence that he would see Hagrid fired, or one of the firsties she had humiliated the day before. The only reason she ruled out the second-years was that she would have expected them to use a curse with more painful and longer lasting effects than a single foghorn-like belch.

Lunch was miserable – Lilian spent the whole meal complaining that she thought she might somehow have jinxed herself, because in their second lesson, Hagrid had over-corrected. They were now learning about the care and keeping of _flobberworms_ , which were decidedly boring. All you had to do to keep a flobberworm alive was _leave it alone_ , with an option on _give it some lettuce every few days_. After what she categorically informed Mary was the longest and most boring hour and a half of her life, including first-period History of Magic classes on the formation of the Wizengamot, she had decided that Malfoy was right – Hagrid had to go.

Malfoy, predictably, was obnoxiously condescending about Lilian joining his crusade, but he did, after fifteen minutes of Lilian’s ranting, magnanimously allow her to do so. Mary rolled her eyes at the whole affair. He was still wearing the stupid sling, and pretending he couldn’t use his arm in public, though everyone had seen him using it in the common room plenty of times since the ‘accident.’

The drama that was Care of Magical Creatures (and chatter about said drama, which neatly distracted Mary from any further attempts to do homework between classes) carried the Slytherins as a whole through until the end of the day, when they finally attended their last new class, “Slytherin Emergency Resources, Protocols, and Conduct.”

As they had discovered over the course of the day since it had been posted, no one other than the third-years could see the advertisement for the class. They were not sure whether this was because Snape liked to be sneaky about everything, or to conserve notice board space, but because of the selective nature of the notice (and the fact that no one had ever mentioned it to any of them prior to this year), it was taken as a matter of course that they should not discuss it with the younger students, or anyone from another house. Mary and Lilian didn’t even tell Hermione (which was admittedly easier than it might have been, given that the Ravenclaw was already buried under five electives’ worth of homework).

Ostensibly, according to the upper years (who were more forthcoming now that the girls knew the name of the class they were asking about), the lessons would be about learning all the different Slytherin emergency protocols, such as the ones that the prefects had used to save them from the Troll in first year. In reality, however, both Mary and Lilian suspected that they would be learning far more than who did what in any given evacuation. No class taught by Snape could really be so straightforward and boring as this one sounded.

Until breakfast and the assignment of her latest detentions, Mary had rather been looking forward to this new class, and finding out exactly what Snape had planned for them. Now, however, she was beginning to think that her life might include slightly too much Snape this week, between Potions, the new class, the new detention, and the upcoming Saturday detention, about which she had to admit, she was a little anxious. Snape’s detentions were normally fairly easy-going for Slytherins. If he wanted them really punished, he normally delegated to Filch. But in this case, they were being punished for making and using illegal potions, which was something he took very seriously, and Mary had a sneaking suspicion that he had come up with something truly horrible. He had, after all, had all summer to plan.

Mary and Lilian slipped quietly from the Great Hall after dinner, making their way to the classroom to find it largely empty. Only Theo had managed to reach it before them. Over the next several minutes, the rest of their class trickled in, chattering amongst themselves, but falling silent in confusion as the appointed time passed, and Snape did not appear. Snape was _never_ late. At five minutes past, Mary checked the time and place she had copied into her day planner. It definitely said seven, and the classroom number was correct.

“How long should we wait?” Lilian whispered from the next desk.

Mary shrugged. “It’s Professor Snape. He’s probably testing our patience or something.”

Theo smirked, but said nothing as Draco snorted. “I could just as easily say he’s testing our gullibility, and we should leave, before he catches us all following instructions from a note,” the blond said scornfully.

“Well, leave, then,” Daphne said. “No one’s stopping you.”

“Maybe we will!” Pansy claimed, but made no move to get up.

“Yeah, right, Parkinson. When have you ever not done what you’re told?” Lilian goaded the other girl.

Blaise joined in a moment later with a disparaging comment about Draco’s arm, and soon the more outspoken half of the class (Lilian, Blaise, Draco, Pansy, and Tracey) were involved in a heated exchange of insults to the amusement of their quieter friends. After about five minutes, Theo caught Mary’s eye and made a shushing gesture before and nodding surreptitiously to a corner. Snape was leaning casually against the wall, smirking at his charges.

After she spotted him, Mary quickly looked around, trying to determine who else had seen him. Theo, obviously, and Millicent. Vinnie and Greg were too wrapped up in the spectacle, as were Draco, Pansy, Tracey, and Lilian, but Blaise winked at her when he caught her staring. Either he was still being weirdly flirty, or he had seen their Head of House, and was doing a much better job than she was of pretending he hadn’t.

Eventually, everyone but Draco and Lilian looked around, and, on spotting the man, dropped out of the contest of insults. Blaise and Theo seemed to be having a silent conversation that consisted entirely of eyebrow raises and darting looks at the two still hissing at each other. Daphne, apparently tired of waiting, flicked a wad of spare parchment into Draco’s face, at which point he finally looked up and spotted the man behind her.

He failed to fully hide his surprise, and Lilian realized what must have happened almost at once. She went very pink as she turned to face the front of the room.

“Good evening,” the professor said cordially, moving to stand in front of the lectern.

“Good evening, Professor Snape,” the class chorused.

“In answer to your question I was testing neither your patience nor your credulity, but your powers of observation. Nott and Zabini passed. The rest of you failed, having had to be alerted to my presence by one of the others.

“Welcome to Slytherin Emergency Resources, Protocols, and Conduct, sometimes referred to as ‘Introduction to Slythering.’” He made a face which suggested that he had not been the one to come up with that name. Mary thought it was kind of cute. (The name not the face.) “It will be held every Friday in this room, from seven until eight PM. Attendance is mandatory.

“If you think back to the events of your first year, you will recall an incident with a troll being released, supposedly into the dungeons, whereupon Slytherin House was ordered by the Headmaster to return to said dungeons. Just last year, the entire school was on lockdown for three days pursuant to the events surrounding the opening of the Chamber of Secrets. There have been no fewer than twenty-two other minor emergency situations outside of the usual classroom mishaps during the two years of your tenure here, ranging from students lost in the far reaches of the castle to the escape of a manticore from a NEWT Care of Magical Creatures class.” Mary briefly wondered what the others were, then flushed when she realized that her interactions with Quirrell and the Veritaserum Conspiracy exploits had probably been on the list. “This class is designed to teach you how to deal with just such situations. Here you will learn the emergency protocols, decision-making skills and spells which serve to make Slytherin House the best-prepared in the school for any attack or accident.

“First term will be largely devoted to learning the proper response to various scenarios, the roles of each class and the prefects in such cases, and how to alert the proper authorities, ie, myself or a prefect, should you become aware of a dangerous situation within the castle, even in the event that you are trapped somewhere in the castle without your wand. Second term will be devoted to the concepts of strategic thinking and planning, evaluating the relative dangers of a given situation and the merits of any given action in said situation.

“The roster of spells we will cover includes what are frequently referred to as the Slytherin Sneaking Spells – Anti-tracking, Footfall-masking, Scent-elimination, visual concealment charms, _et cetera_ ; the most basic of healing spells – Disinfecting, Wound Sealing, and the Greek Setting Spells; and basic emergency charms, including Messenger, Flame Freezing and Bubblehead Charms.” All the students were scribbling frantically, making notes of the promised spells. Mary exchanged a look with Lilian, confirming that the other girl was as excited as herself for this new class.

“It ought to go without saying that you are not to mention this class to anyone outside of the House or to any first or second-year Slytherins. You have been invited because after two years in this madhouse we are pleased to call a school, you understand the dangers and the need for such a class, some, perhaps, better than others. I believe that you can be counted upon to take this class seriously, and to use the knowledge you gain responsibly, in accordance with the Two House Rules of Slytherin. Do not disappoint me in this.” Snape finally paused in his lecture to give each of the students a hard, personal stare.

“At the end of the year, anyone who desires to become a prefect will submit an application to me. I will choose from among those of you who apply based on your performance in this class. If you are chosen, you will attend Prefect Training next year with the fifth, sixth, and seventh-year prefects. Questions?”

No one raised a hand.

“Very well, then. We will begin with basic emergency scenarios, and work our way to more complex. Firstly, in the event that you are lost in the castle without your wand, due, no doubt, to some malicious action on the part of others, and no fault of your own, as I _know_ none of you would possibly be so stupid as to leave your rooms without your wands…”

The next half hour passed incredibly quickly. Mary was certain she learned more about the castle and its safeguards for students than she had ever imagined existed in all her wandering and exploring throughout her first year, though they also learned no fewer than seventeen ways that students had been seriously injured or lost within the building itself. Still, there was no homework, and on the whole she felt that the class ended their official week on a high note.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

Mary’s week, of course, was not over: she still had two hours of detention scheduled for the evening ahead. When Snape released the class, Mary followed him back to his office, where he took his usual seat, and gestured for her to take one as well.

“Mary Elizabeth,” he greeted her with a raised eyebrow and a smirk which, Mary thought, held a hint of amusement.

Mary mirrored his expression as well as she could. “Professor Snape.”

“The prefects inform me that you have taken up arms on behalf of young Rhees.”

“I was defending the Truce,” Mary pointed out, uncertain whether defending Rhees would be considered a good thing, but secure in her knowledge that the Truce was sacred.

“And a first-year muggleborn.”

Mary shrugged. “I would have done the same for a pureblood,” she scowled. “It was eight on one. I don’t like bullies.”

The professor sighed. “You know this will not be the end of it,” he noted. “The arbitration ruling will keep the older students from interfering, but it will have no effect on the first and second-years’ behavior.”

“I’m not interfering either, unless Rhees asks me to. But if I catch them breaking the Truce again, I’ll set the Weasleys on them,” Mary said grimly.

She had the distinct impression that Snape relaxed a bit, though there was no outward shift in his expression or appearance. He nodded, and slid a book across his desk toward Mary. “Your detention tonight will entail copying from this book. Begin with chapter six. You will spend your Monday and Wednesday detentions next week translating your copy into English, and your Friday detention writing an essay on why you have been assigned this particular punishment.”

Mary wasn’t sure if this was a good punishment, or a horrible one – any kind of translation was more difficult than just writing lines, but it was almost bound to be more interesting, and probably more useful, too. She nodded her acceptance of the task and took the book, flipping through it as Snape transfigured the second student chair into a small desk and levitated it into a corner where she would be out of the way, and he could still keep an eye on her as he graded Potions assignments. Faced with a wall of Latin text, of which she recognized perhaps one word in every line, she sighed. This was going to be _much_ more difficult than copying lines.

_De Patrocinio Societatem Magicam (Castor Geraldi, 1709)_

_VI: De Patrocinio Magorum Primogenitorum_

_Magi primogeniti patrocinium susciperet sententiam complexus est. Multa sunt beneficia ad familiam stabilam et magum primogenitum, sed sunt utraque quaedam onera, quae, ut gravia sociali sint..._

* * *

 

**[I spent way too long trying to make the Latin Mary has to translate work out correctly. Forgive me if it’s still wrong – It’s been years since I studied it. I meant it to be translated as:**

**“On Patronage [within] Magical Society (Castor Geraldi, 1709)**  
**Ch. 6: On Patronage of a Firstborn Mage [muggleborn]**  
 **The decision to undertake the patronage of a muggleborn is complex. There are many benefits to both the established household and the muggleborn, but there are also some responsibilities for both [parties], which may be socially onerous…”**

**But if you put it in google translate, all you’ll get back is gibberish.]**


	10. A Punishment to Fit the Crime

###  Saturday, 4 September 1993

#### Hogwarts

Mary slept late on Saturday morning, repeatedly poking the alarm built into her headboard and demanding another five minutes. She finally hauled herself out of bed just before nine, when Lilian knocked on her door and demanded she come flying. Mary, who had not been on her broom since her accident with the tree, almost a full month before, could not think of a better way to spend the morning.

Draco caught the girls on their way out of the Common Room with their brooms and invited himself along, apparently willing to forego his fake injury if it meant getting in a bit of extra practice. Mary found this very irritating at first, because Draco was always vaguely irritating, on top of which she was rather anxious about the Conspirators’ looming detention. She quickly learned, however, that he had somehow bullied his father into buying him an International Quidditch League Regulation Practice Snitch, and she was willing to forgive a great deal of ponciness if it meant she could use it as well.

The pitch was swarming with underclassmen from all houses, practicing before their teams’ Quidditch trials. Mary spotted both Wood and Diggory, who was rumored to be the new Hufflepuff Captain, scoping out the talent. Seamus Finnegan and Ernie Macmillan were taking turns shooting against Ron Weasley in one of the nearer goals, and a posse of younger Slytherins and Ravenclaws were playing follow-the-leader, weaving in and out of the stand supports just above ground level. Morag MacDougal and Cho Chang of Ravenclaw were leading Ginny Weasley through a series of ever-more-complex Seeker drills, and a mixed crowd of second and possibly first-years (tentatively identified by the fits and starts of the wretched school brooms) had taken over the far end for what looked like a half-field version of Quaftan... using a muggle football instead of a Quaffle.

“Bloody hell, Moon,” Draco drawled. “Couldn’t have picked a day when half the school wasn’t out here?”

Lilian stuck her tongue out at the aristocrat. “You didn’t have to come.”

He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’m already here, now, though.”

Mary ignored their little by-play, already on her broom and too happy to be back in the air to mind. “Are you guys coming?” she shouted into the wind, hovering several feet above their heads.

Lilian laughed, and Draco mounted his own broom with a competitive gleam in his eye. “Race you to the lake,” he offered, shooting away before either of them could answer.

Mary could just hear Lilian yelling, “No fair!” as she followed suit.

Racing, first to and then around the lake, turned into diving practice, and then seeing who had learned the most impressive trick flying over the summer. Lilian won that game by demonstrating (very slowly, and only a few feet above the water) her newly accomplished Surfer’s Glide. Draco bet Mary five galleons that he would master that particular trick before she did, and they spent a very enjoyable hour trying to replicate it (an endeavor which ended with both of them thoroughly soaked from repeated tumbles into the lake). Lilian laughed so hard at the two of them that Mary thought she might make herself sick.

Before Mary knew it, the lunch-bells were ringing across the grounds. The trio of Slytherins made their way back up to the castle, where Mary figuratively inhaled her food (a product of having missed breakfast and nearly three hours of relatively strenuous flying) before running off to wash the smell of lakewater from her hair and change into proper robes for detention.

#### Potions Lab 3

The ten Veritaserum Conspirators gathered obediently in Lab 3, just before one in the afternoon. The room was slightly hazy, as though there had been a recent explosion, but there was no sign of any mess for them to work on cleaning up – no pile of dirty cauldrons to scrub or barrel of insects to render into ingredients.

Snape was nowhere to be seen, but the front table was laid out with books and supplies, as though they were truly expected to make some sort of potion, despite the fact that Mary was almost certain the ‘tutoring sessions’ had been an excuse, and not their actual detention. Apparently she wasn’t the only one thinking along those lines, because Adrian whispered, “We’re not really here for Remedial Potions, are we?”

Perry and Morgana gave him a ‘don’t be a moron’ look.

“Maybe we’re making potions for the hospital wing?” Aerin suggested. Mary thought she sounded slightly too pleased at that prospect.

As the one o’clock bell rang, the door to the lab closed with a bang, and their instructions for the detention, if they could be called that, appeared on the slate, as though it were any other Potions lesson. Mary felt her very blood go cold as Lilian read the words aloud:

“’Three among you have been exposed to improperly brewed Veritaserum. Your detention consists of diagnosing and reversing the effects before their time runs out.’ What the bloody fuck?!”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then an uproar as every one of the students objected to this punishment. Mary could make out Hermione’s offended, “He can’t do that to _students_!” Luna’s “This seems very irresponsible…” and Adrian’s “He’s not even _here_?” even as she herself stuttered in shock. The idea that Snape would put her, or any of her friends, in a dangerous and compromising situation, after he had spent so much time protecting her over the past two years, was simply incomprehensible. “He wouldn’t!” she finally managed to choke out.

“He… might,” Morgana said slowly. All eyes turned to her. There was a dark look on her face. “You lot have never really pissed him off before,” she explained. “Remember what he did to Damian Stryke when we were firsties?” she asked Perry and Adrian. The Slytherins blanched, and the twins’ eyes grew wide.

“That was,” “Snape’s doing?”

“What did he do?” Aerin asked.

“But Stryke almost killed that Hufflepuff!” Adrian objected, ignoring her.

“Charlie told us,” “He wouldn’t go to class, or even eat,” the Weasleys explained.

“Yeah, by dosing her with a home-made love potion,” the prefect said. “Do you think he’d think it was any less careless of us to dose three-quarters of the school with Veritaserum?”

(“But we tested it on ourselves! It was safe!” Hermione objected.)

(“It wasn’t really Veritaserum, though, was it?” Lilian asked.)

(“I don’t think that matters, Hermione Jean,” Luna replied, her voice rather clipped. Hermione gave an angry huff.)

“Took his mirror with him to the loo.” “They had to stun him to get him to Pomfrey.”

(“That just makes it _worse!”_ Morgana snapped at Lilian. “We didn’t even know what potion we were forcing on everyone!”)

(“Of course it was Veritaserum, you moron!” Aerin’s distracted rebuke overlapped with Morgana’s. “Faking the test would have been harder than making the potion in the first place!”)

“Well, he’s never actually _admitted_ it,” Perry muttered to the Gryffindors, “but Stryke spent two weeks mooning after his own reflection. All the upper years were saying it had to be Narcissus’ Cordial.”

(“Well then why did Dumbledore call Professor Snape off? Why did he let it go?” Lilian asked her sister, clearly equally angry.)

“And then,” Adrian added, “when Stryke finally ‘recovered,’ and it got out what he’d done, the professor had the lot of us in the Commons for a two hour lecture on potions safety and consequences and it was pretty damn clear he was giving Stryke a look in the mirror.”

“ _Literally_?” The twins spoke as one, looking truly worried.

(“Maybe because he didn’t want us sent to Azkaban?” Aerin said sarcastically, as Morgana asked rhetorically, pointing at the slate, “Does it _look_ like he’s letting it go?”)

“But we didn’t hurt anyone! And we got the Heir!”

The Slytherin prefect abandoned Aerin and Lilian then, to fix Hermione with a penetrating stare. The irate Ravenclaw seemed to wilt before her. “Contrary to popular belief, Granger, the ends do _not_ always justify the means. Knowing how to judge whether they do is one of the most important things you won’t find in a book,” she said scathingly.

Mary’s head had been swiveling madly between speakers as she tried to follow all of the (rather loud) conversations happening around her at once, a headache settling behind her eyes as she listened to the yelling and her disbelief grew. In the relative silence that followed Morgana’s pronouncement, she finally spoke up. “I still don’t believe it. Professor Snape wouldn’t… he wouldn’t put us in danger, just to make a point.”

The looks she received from the rest of the group were almost pitying. It was Lilian who spoke. “He wouldn’t _kill_ us, or do anything he couldn’t fix, I don’t think,” she said hesitantly, “but…”

“Once a Death Eater,” “always a Death Eater,” the twins broke in. “And he might not kill _you_ ,” “but _we’re_ not Slytherins.”

“I don’t really want to think he would do anything like that,” Aerin waffled. “I mean, he _is_ a professor… but what else could ‘before their time runs out’ _mean_?”

“I for one,” Adrian announced, “believe it.”

Perry nodded. “You have to admit, Potter, he has a history of being a cruel bastard, but he’s not a liar.”

Mary shook her head violently, which only made her headache worse.

“He was the _spy_ ,” Luna piped up. “That means he’s the _best_ liar. There’s an easy way to say for sure, though, isn’t there?” she continued. “Is anyone feeling ill?”

All five of the fifth-years shrugged and shook their heads. Hermione raised a trembling hand. “I’ve been getting chills, and my hands are shaking. That’s one of the possible side-effects with Conculi’s Error. It progresses to full-body tremors within eight hours, then intermittent seizures over several days, leading to catatonia within a week if it’s not reversed.”

“Okay,” Morgana said grimly. “Granger’s one. What are the other common side effects?”

“Nausea,” “Headaches,” “Compulsive lying,” “Babbling,” “Acute mistrust and paranoia,” “Lack of external awareness,” “Mental regression,” “Sudden shift in personality,” “Hysteria,” “Mood swings, like” “Sudden and irrational bouts of fear, “Or anger,” the twins rattled off. “And then there’s less common ones,” “But they’re more obvious,” “Or more immediately fatal.”

“Or both,” Hermione added.

“That was awfully cynical for you, Jeanie,” Lilian commented, concern written over her face.

“She has just been poisoned by a professor,” Aerin pointed out. “I think she has a right to be a bit cynical at the moment.”

“Mary Elizabeth, you’ve been rubbing at your temples for over a minute now,” Luna noted. Mary looked up. She hadn’t realized.

“I’m not poisoned!” she snapped at the concerned faces of her fellow conspirators. “Snape wouldn’t do that.” He wouldn’t. Maybe he would to the Weasley twins. She could almost believe he would slip Hermione something non-fatal, since she was pretty sure he knew she was the driving force behind the Conspiracy. But he wouldn’t do it to _her_. Not after their talk about Lily, and the whole, ‘I might have been your godfather’ thing!

“Lizzie,” Hermione said, laying a shaking hand on her shoulder.

“No!” Mary shouted. “I have a headache from all your yelling! Snape didn’t poison anyone!”

The twins exchanged a look. “Denial.” “Hysteria?”

“I’m not hysteric!” she shouted, admittedly somewhat hysterically… but that was because the rest of them were trying to convince her she had been drugged, when she knew she hadn’t. Anyone would be a little upset if it were them, wouldn’t they? Powers, her head was _pounding_.

“What about the rest of us?” Lilian asked suddenly. “Even if Liz is one of the victims,” (“I’m NOT!” Mary shouted,) “that still leaves one more. Aerin? Luna?”

“I… _think_ I’m okay,” Aerin said hesitantly.

“I feel fine,” Luna concurred.

There was a long, tense moment as the ten of them eyed the eight who had not yet been accused of being drugged. Then Aerin said, “Luna… you’ve been rather… lucid, since lunch.”

The little blonde blinked at the oldest Ravenclaw. “I’m always lucid,” she claimed, cocking her head slightly to the left.

“No, she’s right,” Hermione jumped in. “You haven’t been acting like your usual self, Luna.”

The second-year frowned slightly. “Who have I been acting like, then?”

The others ignored her as Perry asked, “How bad is that?”

“Bad,” Hermione frowned. “Depending on when her true personality begins to reassert itself, it can be six to ten hours until true multiple personalities begin to develop.”

“And Potter?”

(“ _I’m not poisoned_ ,” Mary objected.)

(“Sorry, darling, but,” “we think,” “you are.”)

“Headaches could be anything, and hysteria only narrows it down a little,” Hermione shrugged.

“Snape’s saved my life loads of times! He wouldn’t poison me!”

Mary, like Luna, found herself ignored, as Morgana tried to marshal them into a semblance of order. “So it’s Granger, Potter, and Lovegood,” she said firmly.

“Granger, Weasleys, you’ve obviously done a bit of background reading on these side-effects.”

“Well, of course we did! We wouldn’t –” Hermione cut herself off before she actually admitted they had used Veritaserum after all with a firm, “Yes.” Mary rolled her eyes, which was, she realized belatedly, a _very_ bad idea, as her headache seemed to double in magnitude.

“Okay, then, you three make a list of possible errors that can result in each of the effects we’re seeing. Take the books, Snape wouldn’t have left them for us if we weren’t meant to use them. Perry, Adrian, inventory the ingredients and supplies. Moon, you’re with me. We’re going to figure out what we think Snape would and wouldn’t do. Little Moon, keep an eye on Lovegood and Potter. Let us know if they get any worse.”

The older students nodded their agreement and split up to their tasks.

Lilian gave Mary and Luna a worried look before patting Mary’s back gingerly. “It’ll be okay, Liz, I’m sure it will,” she said in her most soothing voice.

“I’m not – oh, for the love of – you’re not even listening to me!” Mary exclaimed, stomping off to the furthest desk in her irritation. Lilian and Luna followed her, whispering. She lay her head down on her arms and closed her eyes, hoping desperately that the migraine would go away if she could just find some peace and quiet.

##### Severus

Severus Snape sat in a dimly-lit corner of Lab 3, thoroughly hidden behind his strongest notice-me-not spell, bubble-head charm firmly in place, watching with interest as his ten trouble-makers succumbed to the power of his aerosolized Suggestibility Solution. He smirked as Miss Yaxley convinced the others that he would, actually, be fully capable of dosing them to make a point. She was on thinner ice than the rest of the Slytherins, and she knew it. He had been most put out to discover that one of his prefects-in-training was involved in the Plot, and had threatened her prefecture over it. He had ultimately refrained from removing her from the roster because there was no suitable replacement among the fifth-year girls (certainly not one who had undergone the appropriate prefect training), and because she claimed to have participated only to protect the school and verified the identities of her co-conspirators, but she was well aware that she would have to work harder than the rest of them to find her way back into his good graces.

Explaining to Miss Granger that the end did not always justify the means was, he would admit, a good start, though he suspected he would still have to step in and curb the girl’s thoughtlessness more directly. The Ravenclaw third of Mary Elizabeth’s little trio was, he thought, the most dangerous element, to the girls themselves as well as to their potential enemies. At this rate, he would lay even odds on whether the machinations of the Dark Lord’s remaining loyal servants or some half-baked, overly complex plan of Miss Granger’s devising was more likely to result in Mary’s untimely demise.

He rolled his eyes, and returned to his analysis of the conversation before him. Miss Yaxley’s tenuous position was, he was certain, part of the reason she so readily believed he would give them a taste of their own potion like this. The other part, of course, was that the story of Damian Stryke’s punishment was true, albeit incomplete. Dumbledore had refused to expel the attempted rapist, claiming a desire not to ruin the boy’s life over one small mistake. (Snape suspected that the perpetrator’s house affiliation – Gryffindor – and blood status relative to his victim – a pureblood assaulting a muggleborn – had something to do with that.)

Sinistra, feeling this ruling did not do justice to Miss Prentice, had petitioned Severus to brew the Death of Narcissus. Though neither Stryke nor Miss Prentice was his responsibility (and although Severus had himself committed far worse crimes at that age), Severus had done so, with the justification that the headmaster’s decision did not adequately address the fact that Stryke had been messing about with dangerous potions unsupervised. He had taken his sweet time brewing the antidote, too, when Stryke’s roommates finally brought him into the hospital wing. It was Sinistra, though, who had gone out of her way to leak the boy’s transgressions to the Prophet. (Though he would never admit it, Severus did love a woman with a vengeful streak. He blamed this on growing up with Lily.) Skeeter had had a field day, and Severus had enjoyed seeing Dumbledore’s biased protectiveness spoiled.

Severus had gotten the credit (or the blame) for the entire ordeal, which fact both he and Sinistra had used to their respective advantages – he in building his fearsome reputation, and she in maintaining her carefully harmless (albeit snarky) façade. He rather suspected that this day’s detention would be the next major rumor added to his notorious account. Even under injunction not to speak of their punishment or the felony behaviors which prompted it, he was reasonably certain it would come out eventually. Secrets lasted longer in Slytherin than in the other houses, but it _was_ still a school, full of chattermouthed schoolchildren.

Miss Granger’s reaction was fully anticipated – not the exact psychosomatic symptoms she would manifest, of course, but the fact that she, undoubtedly knowing the list of possible symptoms better than the others and more susceptible to the influence of authority, even if that influence was communicated impersonally, through the medium of the slate, would be the first to manifest symptoms at all, and thus convince the others that there was something to worry about… that he had foreseen.

The others… the others he had not expected. Had he had to guess, beforehand, who among the other nine would fall to the fumes, he would have chosen, he thought, the younger Moon girl, who was shamefully credulous for a third-year Slytherin, and perhaps one of the Weasley twins, though only after Miss Granger began her involuntary performance, and only because they would perceive themselves, more than any of the others, as his usual sort of target. It was, after all, Gryffindors, who received the brunt of his ire in classes, and they specifically who had put his student in harm’s way, dragging her into the Chamber of Secrets to face the basilisk.

He had not anticipated – would not have, in truth, considered in his wildest dreams – that Mary Elizabeth had developed such a stubborn degree of trust in him that she would resist the implications pressed forward by the Suggestibility Solution. Even if he had saved her life on multiple occasions, he shouldn’t have thought it would make such an impression. She was, after all, his student, and his responsibility. Certainly none of the other young snakes trusted him to the same degree.

It was, of course, the mental dissonance between Mary Elizabeth’s own firmly held belief in him and the potion’s sway which was responsible for her headache, though the others immediately credited it to corrupted Veritaserum. He wondered with slight amusement whether they thought he had truly spent all summer intentionally brewing that potion incorrectly, just for their detentions, and what they would think of their illogical conclusions once the Solution wore off. The elder Miss Moon and Miss Granger, he expected, would be terribly embarrassed.

He had _also_ not anticipated that, in the presence of Suggestibility Solution, Miss Lovegood would be not only no more suggestible than usual, but, as Miss Moon had observed, slightly more lucid. Though the older Ravenclaw had not detailed it, the youngest of the conspirators was focusing more clearly on her surroundings and companions than she ever did in his classes, and had contributed the most logical and straightforward observations on their predicament.

This shift in behavior, misinterpreted by the students, much like Mary Elizabeth’s sudden headache, was, he thought, far more disturbing than they knew. The only potion the young witch should be under the influence of – for he had checked with Poppy beforehand for contraindications, and none of the ten were on any regular potions regimes – was the Suggestibility Solution. And the only case in which exposure to Suggestibility Solution, in any form, would result in an increase in lucidity, was when one had previously been exposed to its _antidote_ over a minimum of six months.

Like most non-household potions, the antidote to Suggestibility Solution was itself quite dangerous, if taken outside of the specific conditions for which it was devised. With no Suggestibility Solution present to neutralize, it lingered in the body, building up slowly over time. Over a course of years, continued exposure could lead to a wide range of symptoms, from chronic confusion, to paranoia, delusions, obsession and even hallucinations.

Based on the girl’s classroom behavior, which had been slightly air-headed compared even to the average first-year Ravenclaw, he would estimate between six months and one and a half years’ exposure. She had probably started taking it when she came to Hogwarts. Why, he could not possibly guess. Severus sighed quietly and pinched the bridge of his nose, warding off a tension headache.

Potions abuse was a serious problem, and as the Potions Master of Hogwarts, it was his duty to report suspected abuses which other professors and staff were unlikely to recognize. It was one of his least-favorite duties, right up there with not undermining Dumbledore in public and fixing whatever messes the students with time turners managed to create over the course of the year (the fact that Minerva and Filius had seen fit to allow Miss Granger to use one of the accursed devices was something that truly didn’t bear thinking about). He was going to have to have a talk with Miss Lovegood, and probably also with Poppy and Filius, and possibly also Xeno Lovegood, if the hippy journalist wouldn’t take Filius’ word regarding his daughter’s health, which seemed unfortunately probable.

Brooding over the unpleasant conversations ahead rather ruined the fun of watching Miss Granger, the reprehensible Weasleys, the elder Moon sister, and his fifth-year Slytherins frantically debating which corrupted versions of Veritaserum he might have given his three ‘victims,’ and, once they finally decided on the three most likely (and they did choose well, he could acknowledge that much), their growing frustration and fear as they attempted to brew antidotes using the false ingredients he had given them – all of them transfigured from water.

By the time the eight-hour mark arrived, even Miss Lovegood and Mary Elizabeth seemed half-convinced that they were dying due to the others’ concern, and Miss Granger’s twitching and shivering had progressed with, dare he say it, _textbook_ precision, to the point that she could no longer speak, let alone hold a stirring rod. Aerin Moon was nearly in tears due to frustration, and her sister, who was channeling her fear into anger, had been trying to escape the lab to go for help for over an hour. Miss Yaxley, Mr. Lestrange and Mr. Wilkes were arguing vehemently with the Weasley twins about whether there was time to try another batch of anything, or even if it was worth it, given the fact that nothing they had tried had worked out.

Miss Lovegood, still the most level-headed, the effects of the Suggestivity Solution persisting, though the air had cleared hours before, cocked her head to one side and said, “It’s like a nightmare, running and running, and never getting anywhere…”

“Shut up, Luna,” Mary Elizabeth whined, pressing her hands to her face as though if she tried hard enough she could fix her headache through physical force. Severus was impressed that she was still fighting to trust him, and found he did feel a bit bad that they had not even been able to brew her a decent Willowbark Tea. He truly didn’t deserve that degree of faith from any student, even Lily’s daughter.

He dispelled his concealment charm and cleared his throat.

Every student turned to face him. Miss Granger twitched. There was a tinkle of glass shattering as one of the twins dropped a stirring rod in shock.

“Five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley.”

“Have you been here the whole time?!” the offending Weasley sputtered.

Severus smirked, and pulled a flask from his pocket, conjuring glasses and pouring careful measures for each of the nine who required it.

“Of course I have, Mr. Weasley. Do you truly believe I would be so irresponsible as to allow the ten of you free and unsupervised access to a potions laboratory, given the nature of the crimes for which you are currently meant to be atoning?”

He directed the glasses to every student but Miss Lovegood with a few well-aimed swishes and jabs.

“What is this, sir?” Miss Yaxley asked, peering suspiciously at the purple liquid.

“The antidote to Suggestivity Solution,” he answered.

“Oh, that makes sense,” Miss Lovegood grinned. “Daddy will be pleased!” Severus suppressed an exasperated sigh. Dark Powers preserve him against well-meaning, poorly-educated parents.

The other students ignored the girl, watching instead as Miss Yaxley threw the draught back, grimacing at the taste, before grumbling, “There was never any Veritaserum, was there?”

The head of Slytherin smirked at his prefect. “No.”

The others followed her lead with varying expressions of disgust and irritation, but wisely kept their complaints about having been tricked to themselves. Mary Elizabeth whimpered as her headache finally eased, and Miss Granger gave him a glare which, if looks could kill, might have equated to a half-decent Bludgeoning Curse as her twitching slowly subsided. The Gryffindors and young Miss Moon, too, looked as though they would not be opposed to his finding a messy, painful death, but they wisely refrained from speaking their minds.

“And the failed potions, sir?” the elder Miss Moon asked tentatively.

“Ingredients transfigured from water.”

The five pranksters groaned, though the Ravenclaw looked slightly relieved that their failure was due to no fault of their own.

Severus’ smirk was back in full force. “Same time next week,” he announced, dropping the pallings on the door and allowing them to file out, muttering sullen variations on ‘Yes, sir,” and, “Another detention like this one might actually kill us.”

The smirk broadened. Next week, he planned to have them copy out every law pertaining to their activities over the previous term. He gave it four hours before they were wishing they were doing something as exciting as thinking they were going to die.

 


	11. Extracurricular Activities

###  Monday, 6 September – Friday, 10 September 1993

#### Hogwarts

The first week of classes, in spite of, or, more likely, _because of_ the fact that Mary had more commitments than ever, had gone incredibly quickly. The second week went even faster, with only the briefest of pauses on Sunday to attempt to catch up on sleep and homework.

None of the Conspirators seemed keen to talk about their detentions, either the first one or the ones to come, for a variety of reasons. Mary was thankful for this. She was filled with a sore sense of betrayal at Snape’s drugging all of them, and thought she rather needed more time to process the fact that no matter how much she might want to, she was wrong to have trusted him so strongly (though it did, at least, settle the question of whether she ought to put more time and effort into finding something to call the man other than ‘Snape’ or ‘sir’ with a resounding _no_ ). Hermione seemed to be embarrassed about having been tricked into thinking she was deathly ill, and Lilian’s frank admiration for what she considered a fitting punishment was met with utter scorn by the others, who felt it was in one way or another unfair.

Slytherin as a house seemed to be holding its breath on the issue of its one resident muggleborn (which Mary began to suspect over the course of her Monday and Wednesday detentions might have more than a little to do with her intervention on his behalf). The first and second-years had made no more obvious attacks on Rhees, and none of the upperclassmen had defied the Prefects to attack Mary herself.

Classes continued smoothly, and there were Quidditch trials to look forward to at the end of the week (and another Conspiracy Detention, and Hermione’s Muggleborn Student Association’s first meeting), but for the most part, the difficulties of the first week seemed not to require any further action for most of the second, leaving a void which was filled with different minor social problems which, Mary felt, disproportionately originated with Lilian.

In hindsight, actually, it might have just been the fact that Mary spent so much time with Lilian that made it seem like most of the highlights of the week had to do with the other Slytherin. Really, she only had two major issues, and one of them involved Hermione, too, but she was so loud and persistent about both of them that it seemed they were larger and more all-encompassing than they really were.

The first problem that Lilian would not shut up about was the fact that Malfoy had apparently ruined Creatures forever with his little hippogriff stunt – the class was still focusing on flobberworms, a fact which did not seem likely to change any time soon. Mary was now even more relieved that she had dropped it. The older Slytherin ranted about it for nearly all of lunch on Monday and breakfast on Tuesday as well, arguing with Draco at cross purposes for nearly half of that time, each of them willfully ignoring the other’s points. (By Friday, however, after their fourth lesson, Lilian was ready to establish a truce with the blond, and join his crusade to get rid of the giant ‘professor,’ if only to move on to something more interesting. Mary was certain that nothing good could come of such an unholy alliance. The entire dinner period was filled with _scheming_.) For the most part, Mary dealt with this by considering the drama good entertainment, and changing the subject to Quidditch when Lilian got too repetitive.

The second issue was more difficult to ignore: Lilian was convinced there was something wrong with Hermione, or else that she was up to something again – possibly something bigger than the Catgirl Incident.

Mary, as seemed to have become her role by default, somehow, over the past two years, was roped into playing Devil’s Advocate, arguing that Hermione _wasn’t_ up to anything, and it was perfectly reasonable for her to be as exhausted as she obviously already was, what with taking twelve classes _and_ having lost all of Saturday’s study time to detentions.

“That’s so not the point, Liz!” Lilian had grumbled. “How is she even getting to all of the classes?! Ravenclaw has Muggle Studies with Gryffindor at the same time as our Runes class, and she never misses Runes, but Daphne says Dunbar says that she never misses Muggle Studies _either_. It’s _impossible_!”

“She said she was doing some classes with the other sections, and some independent study,” Mary pointed out. “Maybe Daphne and Dunbar are just messing with you.”

Lilian dismissed that explanation at once, however. “Why would they bother to lie about that? It’s too easy to check. Roper and Longbottom are both in Muggle Studies, too.”

Because the older girl had taken a far more rational number of hours than their Ravenclaw friend, and had not managed to get two weeks’ worth of detentions (condensed into four days) in the very first week of school like Mary, she had plenty of time to pursue her suspicions while the others were otherwise occupied. So far as Mary could tell, from Lilian’s sporadic meal-time reports, she was largely using her free time to question all of their mutual friends and see if they had noticed anything odd going on, either.

Ginny hadn’t, but Lilian discounted her opinion, since she had been possessed for most of the previous year, and therefore didn’t have a good baseline reference against which to compare this year’s behavior. The fifth-year Slytherins had informed the third-year in no uncertain terms that they had better things to do with their time than to keep an eye on ‘that troublemaking Ravenclaw’ – it was their OWL year, and the professors were already gearing them up for it. And Luna, it transpired, was as unhelpful about this as any other topic on which one might want a straight answer.

“’I expect if any of her need help with anything, they’ll let you know,’” Lilian quoted during their free period on Thursday, while Mary was scribbling away furiously at their Transfiguration homework, due the next morning. “Any of her?” she repeated. “What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Hmmm… You need better informants?” Mary answered idly. “What did you put for the one on naming and its role in the mouse to gerbil versus mouse to bat transformations?”

“Umm… that mouse to gerbil should be easier since they’re more closely related taxonomically, but since the word for _bat_ literally means _flying mouse_ in German, if you use _veranderumng_ instead of _transmutatio,_ mouse to bat is easier. And I _have_ better informants, it’s just they aren’t being very forthcoming,” Lilian pouted.

The older Slytherin was convinced that her sister actually knew exactly what was going on, she just didn’t want to say.

Mary made a non-committal noise. “What about the one for cross taxa power inputs?”

“Increases by one level of magnitude for each taxonomic level and arithmetically between, like, different orders in a class, or different families in an order, and also becomes, oh, what was the word… expotentially? Exponentally? More unstable, so it lasts less time if you turn, say, a mouse into a lizard than a snake into a lizard.”

“Because the snake and the lizard are both reptiles, while the mouse is a mammal?”

“Uh-huh,” Lilian sighed. “I think I’m going to have to talk to the twins.”

Mary finally looked up from her parchment, but only long enough to wrinkle her nose at that suggestion. She was still not happy with the twins, and neither was Hermione. So far, she was pretty sure the Ravenclaw was responsible for at least two of their back-to-school pranks backfiring on them. “Weasleys? _Why?_ And more to the point, why would they tell you anything, even if they knew?”

“Yes, Weasleys, and because no matter how much we hate them on principle at the moment, they have made it their business to know about any weird stuff going on in this school, and they’ll tell me because it’s obvious Hermione’s trying to hide something.”

“Well, yeah, but they like her more than they like you.”

Lilian shook her head. “If they don’t already know she’s behind the sock-spoon incident, and the dungbombs they tried to sneak into Filch’s office making their way back up to Gryffindor tower, I’ll tell them. They’ll roll over on her.”

“How’d she pull that one off, anyway?” Mary asked. She knew the Gryffindors had replaced Morgana, Perry, and Adrian’s spoons with socks-transfigured-into-spoons at dinner on Tuesday, and Hermione had switched them with the twins’ and Lee Jordan’s normal spoons, so that when they cancelled the spells, it was their own mouths suddenly full of soup-soaked wool. But that was in the Great Hall. She had no idea how Hermione had managed to get into Gryffindor tower, let alone the twins’ dorm.

“I’m pretty sure she just summoned them out of Filch’s office and asked Ginny to plant them under the twins’ beds. The Gryffindor dorms don’t have our security. And when the timer-triggers went off, well…”

“Huh. Somehow I would have thought it would be more complicated than that.”

“Well, that’s how _I_ would have done it. I guess there’s no reason to assume she took the easy route.”

“It’s probably safer to assume she wouldn’t.”

Lilian rolled her eyes. “I’ll talk to them after dinner.”

“M’kay. Keep me posted. I’ll be here or in my room, working on that Herbology essay.” Honestly, it seemed like she never did anything _but_ homework and detention anymore.

###  Saturday, 11 September 1993

#### Quidditch Pitch

As it turned out, the twins _did_ know what was going on, but Lilian didn’t manage to track them down until Friday, and then, due to their usual class schedules, Snape’s extra class, and Mary’s last detention for the whole fighting/Dave Rhees/Truce/trial _thing_ , they didn’t have a chance to talk alone until half past seven on Saturday morning, as they made their way down to the Quidditch pitch. The trials, much as they had been the previous year, were held in the morning, directly after breakfast.

It was probably a good thing that they were outside and well away from anyone when Lilian shared her news, because Mary’s response was to shout, “WHAT?” much louder than would be considered unobtrusive or even reasonably polite indoors.

Lilian, who had already had a full night to come to terms with the revelation, smirked. “Yep. _A time turner_. They said their brother Percy had one – doing twelve OWLs is the excuse they use for the Department of Mysteries Mentee Program to authorize their use – and I guess there’s some way they can tell on that Map of theirs.”

“Time. Turner.”

“Little enchanted hourglass necklace filled with the Sands of Time. Yeah. Time turner.”

“So she’s not doing the extra classes independent study, she’s…”

“Travelling back in time one hour at a go, so she can _literally_ be in two places at once.”

“And Percy Weasley had one?”

“Yeah, but he didn’t need it for his NEs, and the twins don’t think he has it anymore.”

“That’s just… _Really_? Time travel. To take extra classes?!”

“That’s what I said. But they said it’s more than that – it’s like a whole program, to vet potential recruits for the Department of Mysteries. You have to get the recommendation of your Head of House and the Deputy Head before they’ll even consider you.”

Mary walked in stunned silence for a few very long seconds before she responded. “Wish I’d known about it.”

Lilian snorted. “I think they have to come to you – you can’t volunteer. Plus, d’you think Professor Snape would’ve signed off on something like that after last year? I bet he’s right pissed that Jeanie’s got one. Just imagine how much more trouble she can get in if there’s two of her running around. Like having her own Weasley twin.”

“Oh, Circe’s tits. There’s got to be like, rules, or something, though. They don’t just give these things to any thirteen-year-old who seems smart enough to handle it… right?”

“Ha. Wizards haven’t any common sense, remember?” Lilian trotted out the watch-word that had ruled the second half of their first year. “The twins said the best they can figure, she’s allowed to be in three places at once, as long as they’re not the same place.”

“Suppose that makes sense. The Gryffindors have three of their electives at once, so if that’s their excuse…”

“Yeah, Hufflepuffs, too. And they said they’ve been keeping an eye out for her since she started sabotaging their pranks. They totally already knew it was her. Weren’t a bit fussed at ratting her out. They think she’s adding in an extra three or four hours to her day, but so far as they can tell, she’s using all that extra time in class or the library.”

“No wonder she looks so tired all the time,” Mary thought aloud, “if she’s up and doing stuff, like, twenty hours a day, instead of sixteen.”

“I know, right? So you know what I’m thinking?”

Mary turned to look at her taller friend. “What?” she asked, the word drawn out with caution.

“We need to have an intervention!”

“Why?” The second question was equally drawn-out.

“Don’t you see?! She has this amazing resource! She could live every day, three times over, and have all the free time in the world for sleeping and studying whatever she likes _and_ still have a social life, but she’s just _wasting_ it and wearing herself out with this three-extra-hours dragonshite!”

Mary stopped in her tracks to look at the other girl. “You’re serious?”

Lilian turned back as she realized Mary was no longer beside her. “Of course I am. It’s just _criminal_ to _have_ this thing and _not use it_. At the very least, she should use it to get in a few more hours of sleep. She looks _awful_.”

“Okay, yeah, but just _think_ for a second. You said it yourself that Snape was probably pissed she had one, because the last thing we need is a Hermione who can break the laws of time and space at will. Can you imagine what she would _do_ with all those extra hours? I can’t even… Catgirl would be _nothing_.”

Lilian’s expression took on a slightly more cynical cast. “Yeah, but… she’s our friend. Our _ally_. It’s pretty much guaranteed that she’s not going to use it to goof off. I can’t see that happening. Experimenting, yes. Breaking laws and sneaking into the restricted section after forbidden knowledge, yes. And probably even yes to trying some dangerous things that she’s not quite ready to handle yet. _But_ , I know she’s got a list of things she wants to look into as long as her arm, and at least half of those have to do with… Tom Riddle, and whatever happened back in 1981. A Hermione with more time to research is a more valuable ally in the long run.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that we should convince our friend to casually mess with the fabric of reality because it will benefit _us_ in the long run?” Mary made a disgusted face at the other Slytherin. “I can’t believe you’d _use_ her like that.”

Lilian smirked. “I wouldn’t ask her to do anything specific, just point out that she could have a lot more time if she wanted it… and then let her do what we both know she wants to do anyway. Do you really trust Professor Snape to come up with the answers for us?”

The younger girl hesitated. A week ago she would have said yes, but a week ago, he hadn’t yet poisoned her and seven of her closest friends (and the Weasley twins). “He’s been very forthcoming so far.”

“It can’t hurt, though, to have independent confirmation. I trust Hermione absolutely. I’m… not sure about Snape.”

Mary bit her lip as she considered. She suspected that Lilian might be trying to manipulate her, as well as Hermione, but she couldn’t imagine what the other girl could possibly be getting out of it. “I’ll think about it,” she said after a long pause, then changed the subject. “Hurry up, we’re going to be late!”

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

Quidditch trials commenced in much the same fashion as they had the year before, though Mary felt it was quite different, to be defending one’s position, instead of competing to take it over. There was more pressure, but at the same time, she felt much more confident from the very beginning.

There were more second-years to try out this year, and more positions open, especially in the reserves. Fetch had graduated, and Chess, their former reserve, had decided he needed to focus on his OWLs and his new prefect position, so finding a new keeper and reserve was the most important goal of the day. Monty, one of their starting beaters, had decided to retire in favor of focusing on his NEWTs, as had one of the reserve beaters, Matt Bannan. Warbler and Snark were both sticking around, but they would need reserve beaters. All of the starting chasers (Flint, Bole, and Draco) were returning, and Lilian was determined to take Bole’s or Draco’s starting spot if she could. This suited Draco just fine, because, as he had done the year before, he was trying out for the seeker’s position, as well as defending his place with the chasers. Envy, Lilian’s fellow reserve chaser, had decided, like Chess, to focus on her OWLs. This meant that they needed at least one more reserve chaser, regardless of whether it was Lilian or Draco who made the starting string.

It was very rare that a fifth or seventh-year who wasn’t already on the team would try out, due to the academic challenges of those years. It was therefore somewhat of a surprise to see seventh-year Stewart Podmore join fourth-years Sadie Rosier and Sabine Kilberthal (who had tried for chaser the year before) and second-years Blake MacDougal and Travis Young in the group of potential keepers.

Vinnie and Greg, along with the now-familiar fourth-year Claudius Burke and second-year Ignotius Carmichael were having a go at the beaters’ positions, though Mary doubted they were expecting to beat out Warbler or Snark to start. Vinnie and Greg, at least, were definitely aiming for the reserves.

There were two second-years challenging Mary for her position, along with Draco: Melinda Lestrange and Edward Rowle, who was not, in Mary’s opinion, built for the position at all. He finished well behind the others in their warm-up/speed test, despite having the latest Comet, which beat out the Nimbus’ top speed by a solid margin.

Finally, it seemed half the second-year class was trying out as chasers. This was a smart move, considering that if they managed to get even into the reserves, they would have a much better chance of making the starting team when Flint graduated. Courtney Avery, Melisandre Flint, William Higgs, and Artie Seran joined that group after the initial race around the pitch, along with a fourth-year, Johnathan Corner, plus Lilian, Draco, and Bole, who, even as a sixth-year, was not exempted from the house rule that everyone had to defend their position but the captain.

The trials proceeded more or less as Mary recalled from the previous year, though there was somewhat less confusing switching of chasers in and out of the goals, since they did have five potential keepers to test. They started with the simple race, which Mary won, though not by much. She and Draco had been flying against each other for two years now, and were fairly evenly matched, despite his broader shoulders and correspondingly greater wind resistance. Melinda Lestrange, too, was very fast, and Blake MacDougal, though he seemed to have rather less control, almost running into Draco as he tried to stop.

The race was followed by scrimmages incorporating all of the potentials, intermixed with diving contests for the seekers, live-bludger beater-seeker drills, and straightforward chaser-keeper drills. Mary cheekily pulled off a Suicide Dive in the first diving contest (accelerating straight down, then pulling a front-flip fast enough to give her whiplash, close enough to the ground that her now-very-long braid swept the grass as she shot back up, silver practice-snitch in hand). Flint, who had forbidden her to do Suicide Dives in practice, lest she actually kill herself, glared at her and Draco called her a show-off, but the second-years were very impressed.

The beater-seeker drills were, for the seekers, basically a dodging exercise. The beaters paired off, each with a single seeker. One beater targeted the seeker, the seeker would dodge, and the other beater would intercept the bludger and send it back at the seeker. The beaters moved closer together over the course of the exercise, so that all three of them had to react faster and faster. They hadn’t done these at the previous year’s trials because there were no beater candidates, but Mary and Draco had both done them in practice over the previous year.

Draco was, Mary would admit, slightly better at the game than she was. He seemed to have a sixth sense for exactly how the beaters were going to strike, moving almost before they did to effortlessly avoid their bludgers, while she resorted to the more acrobatic trick flying Envy had taught her to avoid the murderous metal balls. Edward Rowle was eliminated in the second round by default, as he was knocked off his broom by Vinnie, and had to be taken off to Madam Pomfrey by one of the spectators. Lestrange made a solid effort, but was neither as nimble as Mary nor as graceful as Draco. Carmichael was eliminated as a beater soon after Rowle because he let one of the bludgers escape and had to go chasing off after it down the pitch.

The seekers and beaters had a brief respite while the chasers took shots at each of the keepers straight on, as though practicing penalty shots. Travis Young was by far the least talented of the potential keepers, missing twenty of the thirty shots aimed at him over three rounds. Kilberthal had obviously put in a good bit of work on her keeping since the previous year’s trials, and managed to stop about half of the shots, but she had a tendency to guard the center hoop too closely, leaving the sides vulnerable. MacDougal had a similar score, racing about to intercept each attempt, then back to protect the other hoops rather haphazardly. Stewart Podmore, Mary thought, was a lazy keeper. He was tall, with long, gangly limbs, and almost didn’t have to move to cover a hoop in its entirety. He hovered rather far in front of the hoops, attempting to intercept before the Quaffle came anywhere near the goals, and stopped about twenty of the thirty. Sadie Rosier, though, was fantastic. She only let in three of the thirty, obviously calculating trajectories and intercepting with a grace that reminded Mary of Draco’s dodging, and weaving a guarding pattern between shots as though anticipating a threat from any direction despite the fact that they were working on penalties. Of the three she let in, two were Bole’s and one was Draco’s.

After three rounds of scrimmage and drills, the hopefuls were narrowed down and they played their annual half-field game, the stands filling with betting spectators. Rosier, Podmore, and MacDougal took turns in the rings, keeping for both sides. Bole called plays for one team, made up of himself, Draco, Melisandre Flint, Snark, Vinnie, and Lestrange. Lilian led Higgs, Corner, Warbler, Greg, and Mary against them. Mary caught the snitch easily after about half an hour of wreaking havoc on Bole’s formations. Lestrange, trying to copy Mary’s style and therefore terribly distracted by the other players, never stood a chance.

After that, Flint apparently decided he had seen enough. “Pull it in, people!” he bellowed, directing them to the Slytherin stands, well away from the majority of the spectators. It hardly mattered. While they had mostly disappeared the previous year, due to the fact that Flint had insisted on more chaser exercises after the half-field match, this year, the spectators had no such boring display to suffer through, and so migrated closer as Flint gave his speech about the Importance of Quidditch and the Slytherin principle of putting their best players forward.

“Oh, just tell us, already!” one of the watchers called from the reassembled crowd.

Though he looked like he would quite like to refuse on principal, the captain acquiesced. “Potter, you’re staying on as seeker,” he announced, as though this was a surprise to anyone who had watched the seeker trials. “Malfoy, reserve seeker.”

Both Mary and Draco nodded. Watching the trials, Mary would be very surprised if Draco didn’t keep his position as chaser as well. She could tell that Lilian, sitting on her other side, knew this, too. She had been snappish since the first scrimmage, when it became clear that Draco still worked better with Bole than she did with either of them.

“Warbler, Snark, you’re our starting beaters. Crabbe, Goyle, you’re reserves.” Vinnie and Greg fairly well beamed. Mary couldn’t imagine what would have happened if one of them made it on the team and the other didn’t, or even worse, if one of them was starting without the other. They were almost as inseparable as the Weasley twins. Flint’s insistence on cross-pair training would probably be good for them.

“Starting Keeper will be Rosier,” Flint declared, with a glare at Podmore and a tone which brooked no argument. “Podmore, you’ll be our primary reserve; MacDougal, secondary reserve.”

Mary raised an eyebrow as the spectators murmured. It was odd to take on a specifically _secondary_ reserve. MacDougal would likely never get to play in a match, but Flint must have thought he was worth training up a bit, since he was only a second-year. Someone cheered from the back of the crowd of spectators, “Called it! Pay up, Chess!”

“And finally, for our chasers, it’ll be myself, Bole, and Malfoy to start, with Moon and little Higgs as reserves.”

Lilian grumbled something under her breath that Mary wasn’t sure she wanted repeated. Melisandre Flint looked murderous. Mary would be willing to bet that her older brother was going to get an earful as soon as they were in private. Mary herself was more concerned that she would have to deal with Higgs on the team. He was one of the ones who had been beating on Rhees, and she was sure he was going to be a pain to practice with.

With that, and a reminder to keep an eye on the notice board for practice times, the team was dismissed, and they trooped up to the castle along with the spectators, thankfully with plenty of time for showers and lunch before yet another Snape-filled afternoon. Mary knew better than to try to talk to Lilian for a while. She had worked _really_ hard trying to get on the starting team. Unfortunately for her, Draco and Bole had apparently been doing the same. Now she was just glaring at the boys – Draco, Bole, and Flint, too – furiously. She couldn’t truly complain – Slytherin Quidditch was a meritocracy, and Flint was scrupulously fair about choosing the best players (they couldn’t _be_ the best if they didn’t have the best players) – but it didn’t take a genius to see she wished she could. Mary decided to leave her be until dinner, at least.

When Snape’s detention consisted of eight solid _hours_ (with only a short break for cold sandwiches at dinnertime) of copying passages from law books, which Mary was certain were simultaneously the most complicated and most boring texts she’d ever read, she revised the period over which she was inclined to avoid her more outspoken friend up to Monday breakfast. It was, she thought, a hideous detention (almost as horrible, in its way, as the Suggestivity Solution), and _she_ hadn’t just spent the morning failing to make the starting string. Lilian would probably need all of Sunday to restore her usual good-tempered equilibrium.

###  Sunday, 12 September 1993

#### Hogwarts

Sure enough, Lilian spent Sunday with the third-year Slytherins who _weren’t_ on the Quidditch team. Mary saw her at lunch with Daphne and Blaise, and at dinner with Pansy, Tracey, and Millie. They spoke in passing, but it was clear enough to Mary that the older girl was a bit disenchanted with both her and Draco at the moment. At least the boy had had the good sense not to rub it in that he was starting, as Mary vividly recalled him doing the year before.

Mary spent most of her Sunday in the library with Hermione, finishing her homework for the coming week and attempting to catch up on her correspondence. She normally liked to do her homework as soon as it was assigned, or on Saturday, so she could have a whole day off of a Sunday, but thanks to her detention schedule the previous week, that hadn’t been possible. (And now it was the beginning of the Quidditch season again, so she was fairly certain it would _continue_ to be impossible until after the first match, at least.)

As far as letters went, she had just been accumulating them, since the homework was generally more urgent, but it was bordering on rudeness now not to answer. Some of them she’d had for over a week. Emma and Dan, who had taken to writing separately as they pursued different projects over the summer and into the term, and who now each had an owl of their own, as well as Catherine, were owed a nice long update on everything from the train ride to Quidditch trials. She had also gotten letters from a healer at St. Mungo’s; her caseworker, Mr. Fulton; and a Gringott’s representative who all seemed to think she had some sort of business to take care of since she was now thirteen. Why it had taken a month to get the letters to her, she didn’t know, but she suspected she should talk to the Professor before she answered any of them. At least Remus was in the castle now, and so wouldn’t be expecting proper letters, but they were almost through the second weekend, and she still hadn’t found time to drop by his quarters and see how he was liking the new teaching position.

She sighed loudly, prompting Hermione to comment, randomly, as she often did when thinking about things, that it was odd how the library used torches, while the Ravenclaw Common Room used light globes.

“You’d think it’d be a fire-hazard, with all the books,” Mary agreed idly.

“Hmmm… Maybe they’re not real fire.”

The Slytherin looked up from her History essay to see the Ravenclaw eyeing a nearby torch speculatively. “Whatever you’re thinking, _don’t_ ,” she said with a grin.

“Huh? What – oh! I wouldn’t experiment on the ones in here!” the older girl sounded both appalled and offended. “Madam Pince would probably chuck me out and never let me come back. They don’t give off any smoke, though, have you noticed?”

Mary had noticed. The dungeons had less natural light, after all, and less ventilation, even with the occasional enchanted ‘window’ and air-freshening charms. “Mmm. And the candles in the chandeliers never drip.”

“Really?”

The Slytherin nodded. “They get all dribbly, but they never actually drip outside the holder.”

“Huh. I’ll look it up.”

Mary sniggered, because of course she would, and let the conversation die. She briefly considered asking Hermione about the Time Turner, but decided not to, since she still wasn’t sure what she thought of the whole thing, and wanted to talk to Lilian again first.

Instead she let her mind wander. She was supposed to be writing about the differences between Catholic Inquisitions and Anglican Witch Hunts in the sixteenth century, and their influences on the development of the Statute of Secrecy in the following centuries, but it was very dry stuff, and far less relevant to her daily life than, for example, Snape’s detentions.

Before this year, the only time Snape had given Mary detention, it had been delegated to Filch, and then Hagrid. She was now aware that he did this for most curfew-breakers and mischief-makers, especially Slytherins, since he avoided taking points from his own House like the plague.

Detentions for faffing about in Potions inevitably involved potions – either dissecting something particularly awful, or, if the student couldn’t be trusted to do that properly, scrubbing cauldrons. Slytherins hardly ever got those (they knew better than to mess around in their Head’s class), but she’d heard tales from the other houses, especially Gryffindor.

It was _rare_ for Snape to actually supervise detentions himself. Probably, Mary thought, because he was busy. He gave more detentions than any other Head of House, but he certainly didn’t have more time to supervise them. Less, maybe, given the extra classes he held for third-years and prefects. This made it rather outstandingly odd that he had assigned the Conspirators almost a hundred hours of detention, which he obviously intended to attend to himself. That, though, she might have dismissed as a special case – they had obviously gone far beyond the bounds of normal rule-breaking, and she could see his making an exception for that. But then he had decided to take on her extra ten hours in person as well.

After two weeks and twenty-five hours’ worth of detentions, she had decided that he must be trying to make a point with them. It was the only explanation. She was even fairly certain she knew what the point was: to make them actually think about what they had done – and it was working on her. Despite the fact that she still hadn’t talked about the detentions to anyone, even her fellow Conspirators, she couldn’t help dwelling on them.

The one where he had poisoned them all was clearly meant to say ‘see how it feels, having someone dose you in secret?’ and probably ‘this is what could have happened’ for the ones who had brewed the potion. (Plus ‘you can’t trust anyone, even Snape,’ though Mary didn’t think that was an _intentional_ lesson.) The one where they copied out lawbooks was probably to hammer home ‘you should be in Azkaban, not detention.’ The twins had mentioned on their way out the door that he’d made them do something similar in their detentions for kidnapping her.

She was beginning to question whether it really had been worth it, to catch the Heir. (In truth, she had been questioning that since they had actually _found_ the Heir, but had managed to largely ignore the feeling over the summer.) But surely it was just as wrong for Snape to slip them potions as it was for them to question the school, and to let them off with just detention for their crimes? Not that she wanted to go to Azkaban, but…

The detentions where she tediously copied and then translated Latin were easier, if only because the things they made her think about were easier. Not that they made her think any _less_ , they just didn’t involve any moral dilemmas. The chapter he had made her translate – and she did get through most of it, in the six hours of her detention – was about _patronage_ in the wizarding world, and how a pureblood family could basically sponsor a muggleborn, bringing them into magical society. It sounded not entirely unlike the fosterage system, but for adults, and if she was right about Snape using detentions to teach her lessons, then the thing with Dave Rhees might not actually be resolved.

It was something she definitely needed to ask Catherine about when she finally got to writing letters, because she wasn’t sure exactly what Snape was hinting at (did he _want_ her to be Rhees’ patron?), and suspected that she might have inadvertently advertised to the older Slytherin students that she was offering her protection as the Heir of Potter to David Rhees, First of His Name. And if _that_ was the case, she should probably figure out what that meant in a modern context, and tell Rhees about it, so he could decide whether he actually wanted it. It was the least she could do.

But before she could do that, she really needed to finish her essay for Binns and the rune-drawings Professor Babbling had assigned for Monday, track down the Professor and ask about the official letters, and then she could _finally_ get to writing personal letters, of which Catherine’s, Mary decided, would be first. She cast a quick _tempus_ charm, and frowned. If she _really_ buckled down, she could finish the essay and start the runes before lunch, then catch the Professor after, and hopefully get everything else done before dinner.

_After_ dinner, as Hermione had brightly reminded her, she was to attend the first-ever Muggleborn Students’ Association meeting. While she did not object on principle to being involved with such an organization, Mary wasn’t particularly looking forward to spending an hour making small talk with a mass of people she didn’t know, most of whom were firsties and second-years, when she could be doing something much more useful with her time, like the algebra exercises she hadn’t managed to start yet for Tuesday’s Arithmancy class.

_Right_ , she thought, focusing on the book in front of her, and the fifteen inches she still needed to fill with words. _Witch hunts. Churches. Statute. Powers, could this_ be _any more_ boring _?_ She corrected herself almost at once, however: of course it could. Binns could be lecturing about it. With a small, private smile, she began to write.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

After dinner, Mary dutifully followed Hermione to the second-floor classroom where the new club had been assigned to meet. The older girl talked her ear off all the while about how she had managed to get the Head Girl involved (apparently Penelope Clearwater was a muggleborn), and they had made the club official, with Professor Burbage as their faculty advisor. All of the Ravenclaws were very excited to meet muggleborns in other houses – there were only a few of them, compared to Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.

Mary, for her part, was still more interested in getting started with her Arithmancy homework. Meeting with the Professor and dealing with her ‘Professional Correspondence’ (so-called by Professor McGonagall) had taken longer than she had hoped, and she had had to cut her letters to Emma and Dan frightfully short in order to get up to the Owlry before dinner. She had managed to get a nice, long catching up letter to Catherine, though, complete with all the questions she now had about _patronage_. So at least that was something.

Mary and Hermione were among the last to arrive, just a few minutes before the official meeting time. The room was fairly full – Mary guessed that there were about thirty kids, most of them firsties and second-years. Hermione, as the organizer of the new club, had to stand up in front of everyone and talk about its purpose and how it was meant to proceed. She did so much more confidently than Mary thought she could have done herself, but aside from that it seemed the Ravenclaw had no public speaking skills at all.

The Slytherin had to work very hard to suppress a wince as the older girl babbled about getting to know one another and supporting each other in the strange new world that was Hogwarts. The tendency toward wordiness that served her so well in disguising a lie was _not_ particularly conducive to a good introductory speech. The younger children seemed very bored, and the older students – there were only a few – gave each other rather concerned looks.

Mary, for her part, shared their uneasiness, though she couldn’t have said why. Maybe it was because she wasn’t really a muggleborn, and hadn’t had a normal experience even being muggle-raised, but she just wasn’t very enthusiastic about the idea of a Muggleborn Students’ Association.

Finally, Hermione turned the lectern over to Clearwater, whom Mary was sure she had met before, even if she couldn’t remember when, and came to sit next to her friend, practically humming with excitement. “I think that went quite well, don’t you?” she whispered.

Mary made a non-committal noise. She had honestly stopped listening about halfway through, in favor of watching the other students, but from their reactions, she would have said that it _hadn’t_ exactly gone well. But she didn’t want to contradict her friend, especially not in front of her new club.

Clearwater was talking at the front of the room, outlining what she called an ‘icebreaker’ activity: “So we’ll go around and each of us give your name, year, house, where you’re from in the muggle world, and one fun fact about yourself, yes? I’ll start.

“I’m Penny Clearwater. I’m your Head Girl, in case you didn’t know, which makes me a seventh-year, and I’m a Ravenclaw. My parents lived in Tipperary County, in Ireland, and I like trekking and tenting. Lee?”

The twins’ fellow prankster was sitting in the front row, all the way off to one side. He shrugged. “I’m Lee Jordan. I’m a fifth-year, Gryffindor.” He paused for the young lions to cheer a bit. “I’m from Brecon, Powys, in Wales. I like a good laugh. Thinking of working at Zonko’s next summer.”

The next three students were Hufflepuff second-years Mary had never spoken to: Gita Kaur, who moved to England when she was seven, and twins Jenna and Jessie Reynolds, who liked swimming and playing the piano, respectively. Justin Finch-Fletchley went next – his ‘fun fact’ was that he had been petrified the year before, which Mary didn’t think was very fun at all, and rather in poor taste to mention.

Then there were several first-years from Gryffindor, whom she recognized from the Shopping Trip – Amy Hallinan (who had a twin who hadn’t come), Hannah Murray (who wanted to be a vet when she grew up), and John Shaw (who couldn’t think of anything fun and interesting about himself when put on the spot) – and Colin Creevey and his little brother, Dennis. To absolutely no one’s surprise, Colin’s fun fact was that he liked photography… followed by a request to get a shot of the whole club before anyone left. Dennis liked skateboarding.

When it was Mary’s turn, she got a few weird looks – almost all of them, including the new first-years – had already heard her name and knew she wasn’t actually a muggleborn, plus she was the only Slytherin in the room (Dave Rhees was nowhere to be seen, which was probably a smart move on his part). She forced herself not to roll her eyes while telling everyone that she grew up in Surrey and could talk to snakes. Hermione said she liked skiing, which Mary hadn’t known about her.

Then there were several first and second-year boys who all liked to play football (they de-railed the introductions slightly in their excitement about possibly starting a team), and a Ravenclaw first-year girl who was into ballet. Mary started to tune them out after that, taking real notice only of Chelsea Lewis and Eric Bennett, the only other older students present.

She wasn’t sure, but she thought that Bennett, Lewis, Jordan, Clearwater, Finch-Fletchley and Hermione might be all the upperclassmen muggleborns in the school, which was… kind of disturbing, really. She definitely recalled Lilian telling her that the Death Eaters had targeted muggleborn babies toward the end of the war, but if there should have been fifteen or twenty in every year, like there were for first and second-years… she shivered. That was a lot of dead kids, and somehow a lot more real when they were all in a room together, and not just numbers on a page.

Finally the introductions ended, with second-year Gryffindor Helen Puckle, who wanted to be an actress, and the Head Girl directed them to mingle and talk to anyone whose fun-fact they found interesting. The older students – Mary and the six older muggleborns – gravitated toward one another as the football boys started a loud conversation and the rest of the room formed little trios and pairs.

“Good work, Penny!” Lee Jordan congratulated the seventh-year.

She flushed slightly. “I’m just glad they’re talking, and they’ll be there for each other,” she said quietly. “I, well… I’m sure they’re not going to have the same problems we did, but it’s still good that they’re coming out of their shells early, you know?”

Jordan, Lewis, and Bennett nodded seriously. “This was a good idea,” Lewis added, turning to Hermione. “I mean, now that there’s more of us, we kind of need it.”

Hermione snorted. “I think we could have used it a few years ago.”

“Right?” Finch-Fletchely agreed. “It would’ve been nice, you know, if there’d been anyone around to show us the ropes when we started. Not that you didn’t do a good job, Eric,” he hastened to assure the older Hufflepuff, “but, well…”

“Yeah, there should be a class or something,” Bennett said with an understanding grin.

“What do you mean?” Mary asked.

“You _know_ , Lizzie,” Hermione said. “Like some sort of wizard studies class on how to not make a complete arse of yourself in front of everyone?”

In point of fact, her fellow Slytherins (once they had accepted her as one of them) had made a concerted effort to point out when Mary was making such mistakes. Sometimes this had been done in ways obviously intended to make her feel like an idiot (Draco, Pansy, and Tracey, mostly), but she had quickly learned to conform to the standards of her House. It hadn’t been _that_ difficult (aside from the part where they had tried to haze her to death). “Oh, right – that,” she said noncommittally.

Hermione didn’t seem to notice her lack of enthusiasm. “I can’t believe no one told me to stop raising my hand until you and Lili pointed it out last year!”

Mary sniggered. Even by non-Slytherin standards, Hermione had been an awful attention hog in class. Thankfully she _was_ capable of learning to control herself, especially when Mary and Lilian spent a whole month of shared classes poking her with a sharpened quill every time she raised her hand.

Clearwater winced. “Percy, fifth year.”

“Percy Weasley?”

“Yeah, he’s my boyfriend,” Clearwater said with a grin. “We’ve been going out for a while, now.”

“Did I… um… help bury you two in a snow cave, like, two winters ago?”

The Head Girl and Lee Jordan burst out laughing. “You never told me that!” Hermione exclaimed, just as Jordan said, “Oh, God, the twins told me about that!”

“They said Percy didn’t even take points from them or anything because he got a good snog out of it,” he informed the younger students, waggling his eyebrows teasingly at Clearwater.

She went very pink, but refused to let the younger boy get to her. “It wasn’t a _snog_ , just our first kiss. Very romantic… once the body bind jinxes wore off.”

There was a bit more giggling at that, but then the conversation trailed off, long enough that Mary felt it began to become awkward. Bennett and Lewis wandered away to check on a couple of kids who had managed to exclude themselves from the other conversations and make them feel welcome. Jordan thanked Clearwater for the invite, but excused himself – “OWLs, man – McG’s lost her freaking mind, all the homework she’s assigning.”

The Head Girl gave him a look of false-sympathy. “You think it’s bad now, just wait ‘til your NEWTs!”

He groaned and headed for the door, only to be intercepted by Colin Creevey and his camera, which led to everyone being herded up to the front of the room for a group photo. There was much shoving and shuffling and several calls of “A little to your left! Your _other_ left!” as everyone tried to get in a position to see the camera. Thankfully, the photo-session took up most of the remainder of the hour-long meeting.

By the time all the younger students had gone, and Mary felt she was able to leave herself without offending Hermione, she had come to a decision on the club: while it wasn’t the worst way she could think of to waste an hour, it was still tedious and she had almost nothing in common with most of the members. Hermione, Clearwater, Lewis, and Bennett seemed to think that it had been, on the whole, a success and were chatting eagerly about what they should do at the next meeting, but Mary was thinking that if she could think of a reason to avoid attending, she probably would.

She wasn’t sure, never having been a member of a club before, but she thought one shouldn’t feel more isolated and left out of things after joining one.

In a rather strange mood, she bid her friend and the older students farewell, and made her way back to the dungeons to _finally_ get started on her maths.

###  Monday, 13 September 1993

#### DADA Classroom

##### Mary

Monday was significant for Mary for exactly one reason: DADA. Of course, there were other things that happened that day, too, but they were all other people’s problems, so far as Mary was concerned. She truly didn’t have anything to say about Hermione’s reaction to the morning paper (She was suddenly and inexplicably pissed about an anonymous letter apparently written by her mother, which hinted that Hogwarts’ standards were clearly slipping and called its safety standards into question.) or the fact that Lilian still wasn’t speaking to her or anyone else on the Quidditch team with anything other than the bare minimum of politeness.

She had decided, sometime between leaving the Muggle Students’ Association and arriving back in the Slytherin dorms the night before that she would quite like to start a club of her own (preferably with as little investment of her own time as possible). It had begun with wondering exactly what she could do to get out of attending _Hermione’s_ club, and then she had realized that the only thing she would actually be willing to make more room in her schedule for would be learning how to fight properly.

While she had learned plenty of spells on her own, with her friends, and with Catherine’s help over the summer, she still felt that she was missing out on a key aspect of learning how to really fight – the actually dueling other people bit of it. And she couldn’t help think that, regardless of what Catherine might have to say about the patronage system, Mary was likely to be getting into a lot more fights this year, or, hell, over the course of her life in the magical world. She couldn’t count the number of times she had been attacked, by students, professors, and magical creatures since she arrived at Hogwarts. If the underclassmen had had any sense at all, the little beat-down she had given them in defense of the Truce (and Rhees) could have gone _much_ worse. Learning how to properly defend herself seemed like a better idea the longer she thought of it.

And in order to do that, since she was fairly certain it was frowned upon to ask one’s friends to come to an abandoned classroom and hex the crap out of each other, it only made sense to attempt to re-start the dueling club.

Thus, she was looking forward to DADA because it presented her first opportunity to draw Remus’ attention to the fact that the third-years, and probably every other class as well, were woefully behind in Defense. This was the first step in her plan to get him to do what Lockhart had failed at so spectacularly. After all, who else should teach dueling besides the DADA professor? (Actually, she knew that Flitwick had been a champion duelist, but she knew Remus better, and therefore suspected she had a better chance of convincing him to do it.)

Unfortunately it seemed the new Defense Professor was more resistant to her hints than she had hoped. After a full ten minutes of questions on what they ought to have learned in their previous two years’ courses, during which the other Slytherins and half of the Hufflepuffs kept giving her odd looks, doubtless wondering why she was apparently intentionally attempting to derail class, Remus had snapped.

“Miss Potter,” he had said rather irritably, his temper obviously not improved with his health, “you may remain after class if you wish to discuss the curriculum further. Now, _today_ , we are meant to be discussing the Powrie or _Red Cap_. Write that down, it will be on the exam. The Red Cap is native to the old world, including Europe and our very own island. I’ve arranged for one to be delivered for our observation, but it’s been delayed in transit and won’t be here for another week or so, unfortunately. So! Instead we’re going to be taking a look at _this_.”

He whipped a sheet off of a small cage with iron bars. A creature the size and shape of a small dog, with patchy brown fur and a bear-like head lunged at them, recoiling when it came in contact with the metal. “ _This_ is a Blood-Sucking Bugbear. They’re _not_ native to Britain, but they were introduced in order to try to control the native Pixie population by the Romans, so they’ve been here quite a while. Alone, it’s not much of a threat to an armed wizard, as it’s susceptible a simple stunner or freezing charm, but the bachelor males tend to travel in packs…”

##### Remus

There were fifteen-minute passing periods between Hogwarts lessons, and though underclassmen only attended each class for about three hours each week, the core subject professors taught 36 hours of lessons. This meant that, regardless of whether Mary had a free period next, Remus had another class arriving shortly, and therefore a limited amount of time to get to the bottom of whatever was bothering her to the point that she had repeatedly interrupted his lesson.

He liked to think that he was a fairly intelligent man – when he was a student, he was always the bookish one, called upon by his friends to find the spells they needed to pull off their pranks – and living out in the world, first with the werewolves during and after the war, then as a travelling adventurer, had driven a certain amount of social awareness and ‘street smarts’ into him as well. He was certain this would be construed by most of Magical Britain as ‘Slytherin-ness,’ but in his mind it was just good sense and people skills. He also liked to think that these skills helped him to be a good teacher, but on days like this, he was fairly certain that endless patience was far more important.

For example, it was taking a great deal of patience not to snap at the girl who was now standing before him, rocking rather nervously from her heels to her toes, hands locked behind her back, avoiding his eyes. He sighed and took a seat at one of the student desks, rather than continue to loom over her. “Have a seat, Mary,” he invited.

She sat, but failed to raise whatever question she had. Perhaps that was only to be expected. They had only spoken in person and informally twice, and he was now in a position of relative authority over her. He was beginning to believe that children, like werewolves, reacted instinctively to shifts in power-structures, even if they were not consciously aware of the reasons for their reactions.

“I’m not angry with you,” he offered, watching her pick at her nails and avoid his gaze. “We only have a few minutes, but perhaps you’d like to tell me what you were thinking earlier?”

Mary apparently decided that honesty would be, in this case, her best option. There was no scent of deceit about her as she explained: “I thought that maybe if I made it clear how much we missed out on the first couple of years, you might be more willing to sponsor a dueling club. Lockhart tried, but he was a worthless ponce. But you could really do, like, a good job with it. You’ve actually _done_ the kind of things he _said_ he had. But I think I might have, um… I overdid it,” she ended, flushing slightly, clearly embarrassed by her failed, childish attempt at manipulating him.

Remus sighed. While it was, on the one hand, flattering that she wanted him to teach her how to fight, it was also rather disturbing. He, along with all of the other professors (except perhaps Trelawney), had heard about Mary’s recent altercation on behalf of the muggleborn Slytherin. The snakes in general had been fairly close-mouthed about the whole thing, but Minerva had gotten wind the assigned hours of detention as Deputy Head, and questioned Snape as to the reason behind the punishment of her ward in the staff room, and Pomona, who had overheard, was, as Remus was quickly discovering, an inveterate gossip. He didn’t like to think that Jamie and Lily’s little girl was already facing enough troubles and pressures that she was actively looking for someone to teach her how to defend herself. And what was worse, he actually felt that dueling was the aspect of DADA that he was _least_ qualified to teach.

“Why didn’t you ask Professor Flitwick?” he asked, “Or Professor Snape? I know he was involved with Lockhart’s club last year.”

“I, um… that is… I thought that, well… I just wanted to learn from you, that’s all.” Remus could smell the embarrassment rolling off the girl. Great. Now he felt like a cad. She trusted him to teach her to protect herself, and he was letting her down.

“Listen. Mary. It’s not that I don’t want to teach you,” he said, thinking fast. “I just don’t think I’m the best professor to start a club like that.”

“Why not?” she asked. “You’re the Defense professor! And you’re the best bet to actually do it. Professor Snape hates teaching. He was only there to make Lockhart look bad. And Professor Flitwick already has Charms Club to supervise.”

Remus groaned. “That’s the problem: I _am_ the Defense professor. I’ll be gone by the end of the year, you know. And dueling isn’t my strong suit. If you wanted to start a club looking at defensive enchantments or Dark Creatures, strategy, or even counter-curses and jinxes, I would be all for it, but I don’t have the right experience for a dueling club. I’ve never been a one-on-one, front-line fighter. Even in the war, I was a negotiator, not a warrior.” Not to mention he was struggling to drag himself through just basic lessons one week out every four.

“You could still teach us the basics. Anything would be better than nothing,” the girl pointed out, crossing her arms stubbornly.

Well, he couldn’t really argue with that. “Tell you what, how about you ask Professor Flitwick if he’d be interested, and if he’s not up for it, I’ll do it.” Worst case scenario, he could find some of the NEWT Defense students who had been trained in dueling over summers and offer them extra credit to teach the underclassmen.

“Really?” the girl’s whole face lit up as she grinned, reminding Remus strongly of Sirius, a thought he quickly quashed. He was desperately trying to avoid thinking of the dog since he had escaped Azkaban, apparently to hunt the girl before him.

“Yes, really. But talk to Professor Flitwick first,” he insisted. “He really does have the kind of experience you need to learn from.”

“Okay, I will.” Excellent. And Remus would be sure to mention it to the Charms professor as well.

“Alright, then. My next class will be coming in any minute, but do try to find the time to come visit me next weekend, alright? I’ll be here most of Saturday, and I’ll leave a message with the portraits outside if I step out.”

“Sunday might be better,” Mary muttered, suddenly and inexplicably nervous.

“Oh?”

“It’s, um… Quidditch. We still don’t know the practice times, yet.”

Remus’ curiosity was piqued. For a Slytherin, Mary was not a very good liar. He didn’t even need to smell her anxiety to know that, regardless of whether Quidditch practices had been scheduled, it wasn’t the real reason her Saturdays were booked. But the first of the sixth-years arrived, so he couldn’t really pursue the issue. He simply gave her a disbelieving look and said, “Sunday is fine.”

“Great!” She sounded relieved, he thought, not to have been called out on her lie. “See you later, Remus!”

She bolted for the door, and several of the sixth-years laughed at him as he called after her, “It’s _Professor Lupin_ , you little scamp! Kids these days,” he muttered for the upperclassmen’s benefit, shaking his head morosely. “No respect for their elders, I tell you.”

This, of course, garnered more laughter as the older students settled in their usual places. For the younger classes, he had made a point of presenting himself slightly differently to each house: Adventurous for the Gryffindors, taking them to the teacher’s lounge to deal with their boggart, or telling stories of his travels to illustrate the use of different spells; knowledgeable for the Ravenclaws, demonstrating advanced techniques and referencing obscure texts; reliable and protective for the Hufflepuffs, emphasizing that every one of them could and would succeed, and that the things he was teaching had real-world applications that could help their friends and families; and overwhelmingly _competent_ for the Slytherins – the third-years weren’t the only ones who had thought to test him on the first day of classes. (That first week of classes was the most exhausting full moon week he had had in years, even with Snape providing Wolfsbane for the transformation itself.)

For the NEWT students, however, he had taken a different approach: treating all of the sixth and seventh-years like responsible adults, rather than catering to their individual house prejudices. It seemed to be working. According to Pomona, he was already known as ‘the cool teacher,’ and the older students were quick to respond and open up to him, both with questions and in discussion.

“Alright, you lot, settle down,” he called, as the last of the sixth-years filed in. “As you may recall, we’re still working on the Patronus Charm this week. We’ll move on to new things next week, but I expect you all to know the theory behind this spell well enough that you can practice it outside of class…”

 


	12. Poking at Politics

###  Wednesday, 15 September 1993

#### Hogwarts

Catherine’s response to Mary’s rather hasty letter regarding her classes thus far, the incident between herself and the younger Slytherins, and Snape’s detentions (the Latin ones, not the Veritaserum ones), arrived on Wednesday at breakfast, along with Professor Flitwick’s note agreeing to arrange a Dueling Club. Apparently it would be no trouble at all for him to institute something on the model of the Charms Club, held, perhaps, on opposite weeks, and he was more than happy to do so.

Mary opened Catherine’s scroll eagerly, but her face fell as she realized that the situation might be far more serious than she thought – or rather, she could make it mean more, if she wanted to. The basic gist of the letter was that Patronage was the foundation of modern Magical British society, from inter-house relationships to the Ministry to the Wizengamot. Regardless of whether individuals or houses claimed a formal Patron-Client relationship (and some did – Crabbe and Goyle, for example, had become clients of Malfoy during the 1980s) everything still functioned on an unspoken system of favors and protection, where the stronger or richer or more influential granted advantages and protection to their lesser counterparts in exchange for loyalty.

The favors went both ways, with Patrons helping their Clients, and demanding the occasional repayment, be it voting a certain way on a particular law or hiring one of the Patron’s other Clients for a Ministry post. They didn’t have to be so blatantly political, though. Horace Slughorn, the former Head of Slytherin, had, Catherine said, established a formidable unofficial Client Network, trading introductions for Quidditch tickets and generally facilitating interactions among his various ‘acquaintances.’ Mary couldn’t help but see a certain degree of similarity in her recent experience with Flint and his helping her out with the Rhees incident in exchange for that as-yet-undetermined favor.

She was suddenly struck by the impression that Slytherin House seemed to mirror the political world of Magical Britain a lot more this year. Whether that was because the politicians had been Slytherins or Slytherin House was deliberately preparing its students to deal with the outside world, and why third year was apparently the time for such revelations, she couldn’t say.

As for the idea of sponsoring a muggleborn, or taking a muggleborn on as a client, Catherine insisted that _that_ practice had gone out of vogue nearly a hundred years prior. It was so neglected in recent generations that to revive it would likely seem progressive to the younger pureblood families, though most of the Old Families would probably see it as an _ultra-_ traditionalist move (the thing about having a thousand years of history, as Mary was learning, was that almost every political position she could think of had been ‘traditional’ at one point or another). The progressives would probably, Catherine thought, be mildly offended by Mary’s dusting off the old formal structures to govern a friendship between an eleven-year-old and a thirteen-year-old, but, she added in what Mary could only assume to be a vaguely sarcastic tone, it wasn’t as though Mary had to worry about being hexed by progressives in Slytherin.

The analysis of the pros and cons of such a move went on for more than two feet, summed up with the statement, “I think you should do it. It’s a flexible move, in that it can be spun in any direction once you get a feel for how the wind is blowing, and taking that kind of step marks you out in the political world as both savvy and unpredictable. It’s never too early to start cultivating your reputation.”

‘Cultivating your reputation’ was a theme Catherine had been pushing for months, now. It had begun at the beginning of the summer, with a stack of old Prophets, and an analysis of the various forces affecting Mary’s position in public opinion. Apparently she had started off on a pedestal, due to her fame as the Girl Who Lived, but had taken a flying leap off of it by getting sorted into Slytherin and announcing herself as a Parselmouth. The fact that she had done nothing to discourage her reputation as the Heir of Slytherin was variously interpreted as tacit acknowledgement of the title, disdain for it (as though it were too ridiculous to address), and even a _publicity_ _stunt_ (as the added ambiguity supposedly made her even more compelling as a public figure).

On the whole, Mary had been pleased to find that she had managed to successfully tarnish the Golden Girl image Dumbledore seemed to have been developing on her behalf before she arrived at Hogwarts, but Catherine was dissatisfied. She kept saying that Mary needed to start actively developing a public persona, rather than leaving it to the whims of the media, but Mary really couldn’t care any less what they were saying about her. She would rather, of course, that they not talk about her at all, but apparently that wasn’t an option.

Still, out of all the suggestions Catherine had made regarding Mary’s reputation, befriending Dave and making an “official” unofficial Patronage offer was probably the least disturbing. Others had included a press conference regarding the Heir of Slytherin and the Chamber of Secrets; letters to the editor of the Prophet addressing some of their more outlandish claims as slanderous; arranging to be seen at specific shops, or in the company of specific individuals, in order to give the impression that she was politically aligned with their families’ views; and of course actually attending her peers’ pureblood tea parties. Mary hadn’t wanted to risk the first two plans backfiring, she wasn’t sure what her political views were yet, let alone whether they aligned with anyone else’s, and the parties were dreadfully dull.

She set the (rather long) scroll aside in favor of reading the Prophet’s editorials over Lilian’s shoulder. She clearly had a decision to make, and she would have to think about it more before approaching Dave, either way.

Several responses to the letter Hermione said was written by Emma had been printed, their contents ranging from tirades against Dumbledore, to personal attacks against Emma for writing in anonymously, to well-reasoned arguments for more Ministry oversight of Hogwarts, to others writing in with their own complaints about the country’s primary educational facility (Binns, the food, Binns, the DADA Curse, and Binns were a few of the favorite topics), to a long, meandering letter whose only purpose seemed to be pointing out that this sort of Hogwarts-bashing session came around every few years, and never seemed to result in any changes.

Mary hadn’t had time to do more than skim the page when she and Lilian were interrupted by a pair of rather irate-looking Weasleys.

“Potter,” one of them said, stalking up to the Slytherin table in full view of the hall.

“Moon,” the other greeted Lilian, equally coldly.

Lilian squinted at their chests for a moment before responding. “Hi George!” she said brightly, looking directly at the first twin, then the second as she said, “Fred. What’s up?”

The boys’ reactions were enough to tell Mary that Lilian had managed to get their names correct on the first try. She did a bit of a double-take at her friend before peering more closely at the red-headed terrors herself, trying to see what had given them away. There was a faint glimmer of a large, illusory ‘G’ opposite George’s Gryffindor crest, and an ‘F’ on Fred. She smirked, wondering how long they would last.

“ _That_!” Fred practically hissed.

“What spell did Granger use?” George demanded.

Fred, as was their habit, picked up where his twin left off: “We are _not_ going through another day like yesterday!”

“You’ve been like this a whole day already?” Mary asked, sniggering and wondering why she hadn’t heard before.

“ _Yes_ ,” George grumbled. “She’s _labeled_ us somehow!”

“Wait – can’t you see it?” Lilian smirked.

“ _No_. And we can’t get rid of it without knowing what spell she used!” Fred nearly shouted in clear frustration.

The girls took their time laughing at the twins’ predicament. It was clear that the illusion was fading, even as they watched, but neither of them was about to clue the boys in. Finally, Lilian recovered enough to say, “And you can’t see it! That’s _brilliant_!”

The twins simply stood, glaring furiously, arms crossed.

“Why should we help you?” Mary asked, as coldly as she could, given her amusement.

That obviously wasn’t the answer the Weasleys had been expecting. Their jaws dropped open in concert. “Why shouldn’t you?” Fred asked, clearly bewildered.

“No, Liz’s right,” Lilian corrected them. “Why _should_ we? Why the hell would we want to piss off our friend to help a pair of morons who turned Jeanie into a catgirl and _kidnapped_ Liz for three days?”

“But –” George tried to object, but Mary talked over him.

“C’mon, Lils. We’re going to be late for class.” They weren’t, but it was as good an excuse as any to leave the stunned Weasleys behind them, at the mercy of the other Slytherins’ sidelong glances and vicious taunts. Their housemates would hardly barge into an ongoing conversation or conflict, but once it was over, the boys would be fair game. They had to have known they were entering enemy territory by approaching the Slytherin table in the first place. They were lucky it was breakfast – most of the upperclassmen were absent before lunch.

They struggled free of the bench, snagged up their bags, and Lilian linked her arm through Mary’s plastering a superior smirk across her face. “Let’s.”

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

Several hours later, after lunch, a free period found Mary and Lilian in an abandoned classroom, chatting and practicing the first few ‘Sneaking Spells’ Snape had taught them. He had made it very clear that most third-years’ magic was powerful enough to manage OWL-level effects: it was simply their magical precision and mental stamina that was lacking. To that end, they were to practice until they could manage each spell ‘at least competently, if not expertly.’ Not one of the young Slytherins had given any sign that they would dare slack off. Not only was Snape still a rather intimidating Head of House, but given the Troll Incident in their first year, they were convinced that their lives might one day depend on these spells.

“ _Odorem negate!”_ Mary snapped, directing her wand at her freshly-soiled Herbology gloves.

The greenish charm hit the target, but when Lilian bent close for an experimental sniff, she made a face. “Still a bit whiffy.”

“Maybe dragon dung is magically resistant,” Mary groused, irritated by their lack of success.

“I don’t think so,” Lilian laughed, casting her own charm at the gloves. “Just powerfully smelly,” she added, taking another sniff and wrinkling her nose.

“Let’s try the Whisper Charm for a while instead,” the younger girl suggested.

“What was the incantation again?”

“ _Quivox ad parmae_ ,” Mary cast, pronouncing the words carefully as she concentrated on Lilian. “Can you hear me?” she asked, jumping up and down when she failed to hear her own voice in her ears. That was a good sign it had worked.

Lilian repeated the charm before whispering, “Yes!” in response.

“It works! Sounds like you’re right be- oh, bugger,” she swore as the effect wore off. She heard Lilian giggling in her ear for a brief moment before the sound moved back to its natural position and volume.

Both girls cast it again. “What should we talk about?” Mary asked, laughing a bit herself. Something about the Direct Whisper Spell practically demanded they talk about secret things.

Lilian seemed to agree. “Hmm… How about Hermione and the Time Turner?” she suggested.

Mary groaned. She had given the issue some thought since Lilian had mentioned it over the weekend, and she was no closer to reaching a conclusion. “You still want to try to convince her to use it to research stuff about me and the Dark Lord?”

Lilian shrugged, renewing her Charm. “I want to convince her to use it more _in general_. If she just so happens to use it for things that will be useful for us in the long run, even better.”

The younger Slytherin considered poking at the ‘ _us’_ comment, but thought better of it. After their last two years together, she didn’t doubt that Lilian and Hermione would be by her side if and when the Dark Lord came looking for her. “I still don’t know if it’s a good idea,” she whispered back before casting her own spell again. “I mean, Hermione can be kind of scary intense. I mean, just think about the – _quivox ad parmae –_ think about the _Veritaserum_ thing. Or what she’s like with revising, or signing up for all the classes in the first place.” The Charm wore off, but she didn’t bother casting it again. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to convince her to break more rules and give her time to get even more… obsessive?”

Lilian shrugged. “She’s going to have to learn to control herself eventually, right? Might as well start when she’s already having detentions with Professor Snape every week. If anyone can drum sense into her frizzy head, it’s him.”

“I thought you didn’t trust him,” Mary whispered, without the spell.

“Trusting him to teach Jeanie right from wrong isn’t the same as trusting him to find the right answers and keep us involved with… everything,” Lilian hissed back, rolling her eyes. “Independent confirmation, remember?”

Mary conceded the point with a shrug. “Yeah, but… I just worry about Maia. You _know_ her.”

“Curiosity killed the Catgirl?” the older girl smirked.

“Well… yeah.”

Lilian laughed humorlessly. “That’s the problem, Liz – I _do_ know her. And I know at the rate she’s been going the last few weeks, she’s going to work herself right into the ground trying to follow the rules _and_ get through all her lessons and homework and now this thing with the twins… It’s not just about what we’ll get out of it, you know. It’d be for her own good, having a bit more time for things like sleep.”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Mary said darkly, “but you’re assuming she’d actually _use_ it for things like _sleep_.”

“All right – think of it this way, then: What’s the worst that could happen? She exhausts herself three times as fast and drives herself into the ground by the end of October instead of around winter hols? She’ll learn her lesson sooner rather than later, and still have most of the year to do whatever, but, you know, in moderation.”

Mary shook her head. “That’s not the worst that could happen. That’s like, the _best_ that could happen. The worst would be… I don’t know. Maia getting obsessed with the Dark Arts, or blowing up the Time Turner and getting lost in time, or getting arrested for breaking whatever laws she decides don’t apply to her next or something!”

“We wouldn’t let that happen!”

“How would we _stop_ it? We already don’t see her very often, and if she’s living every day three times over, that’s twice we wouldn’t be with her.”

Lilian looked stymied for a moment, but she quickly rallied and changed tracks. “It doesn’t matter. That won’t happen, anyway. I trust Hermione, and I’m surprised by how little you seem to. She’s our friend, and we owe it to her to point out when she’s not acting in her best interests.”

“I – That’s not! – Of course I trust her! I just don’t think it _is_ –”

Lilian cut her off ruthlessly. “If she was _really_ your friend, if you _really_ trusted her, you wouldn’t be worried about her falling to the Dark Arts. You’re practically accusing her of being like Riddle, you know. I can’t believe you would even _say_ such a thing! I hope you never say it to her face – it would crush her, knowing her _first friend_ _ever_ thought so little of her!”

Mary hesitated. Was that true? She hadn’t meant to say anything like that – Hermione was _nothing_ like the boy from the Diary. The Ravenclaw was her first friend too, and… was she being a bad friend, worrying about Hermione being tempted by forbidden knowledge?

Lilian’s face took on a sympathetic expression as she continued. “Look, I know it’s hard for you, trusting people after the childhood you’ve had, but Jeanie’s a good person. I trust her not to do anything that’s really _bad_ , even in the pursuit of knowledge. And I think deep down you know you want to believe in her too.”

“I… Okay,” Mary relented. She did trust Lilian’s judgement. Lils and Maia were the two people in the world she trusted more than anyone else, and she hated that Lilian would think she _didn’t_ trust that Hermione was a good person at heart. Did Hermione think the same?

“Really?” Lilian smiled hopefully. When Mary nodded hesitantly, the taller girl wrapped her in a quick hug. “Good. I’m so happy for you. It’s really brilliant, you know, that you can still see the good in people, even after everything you’ve had to deal with these last few years. I know it must be hard. But you have to remember, Jeanie and I are here for you.”

“Thanks, Lils.”

“So you’ll help me talk to Jeanie? How about Friday, after Snape’s class?”

Mary hesitated, but looking at Lilian’s face, full of excitement and hope, willing her to trust Hermione, she couldn’t say no. “Let’s wait and find out when Quidditch practice is, first.”

The older girl beamed. “Great! I knew you were a good friend.” Then she cast a quick _tempus_ and made a little ‘eep’ noise. “C’mon! We’re going to be late for Arithmancy!”

###  Thursday, 16 September 1993

#### The East-Northeast Tower

Thursday was notable for two reasons: first off, the new Quidditch training schedule was posted on the notice board: Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday after dinner until curfew, and Sunday mornings from six to noon. Their first practice would be that very evening, which realization all of the third-year players greeted with a groan. Lilian had a tendency to leave her homework for the last minute, and Draco, rather like Hermione, started early, but never really considered it ‘done,’ working on it sporadically until it was due. They would now have to rush to complete everything they’d meant to do that evening during their free periods.

Mary, in contrast, had finally caught up with everything assigned over the past week, maintaining the same furious pace she had set for herself when faced with the detentions for fighting. Living with the Dursleys and the Urquharts, she thought, had taught her nothing if not efficiency. This meant that she was rather at loose ends during her morning free period, as Lilian joined Hermione in the library for once. Rather than sit around watching them work and be accused of gloating by her fellow Slytherin, she was wandering the halls again, wondering if it was worth heading out to the grounds only to have to turn around and come back for lunch.

Deciding that it probably wasn’t, she headed up to the Owlry instead. It had been a few days since she had visited Eirene. She nearly tripped over Dave Rhees sitting on one of the top steps. The fact that he looked rather like he was trying not to cry was the only thing that stopped her yelling at him for lurking on a spiral stair. Instead she gave him her best unimpressed eyebrow.

“You know, this is about the worst place in the school to come if you want to be alone,” she pointed out after fetching her owl from her perch. The brown and white brindled bird preened her hair as she casually traced the long lines of her flight pinions.

“It was working out pretty well until you came along,” the boy grumbled.

Mary sighed. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Come walk with me, and I’ll show you a better spot.”

He didn’t look like he really wanted to, but perhaps he had been bothered by others trying to access the owls, or perhaps he felt like he owed her for her intervention the last time they had come across each other, because he hauled himself to his feet anyway. Mary set off without another word, owl on her shoulder and boy trailing behind.

It wasn’t far to one of her favorite spots in the castle – a little balcony overlooking the lake halfway up the East-Northeast Tower. She had found it her first year, before they decided that it would be best if the girls were never alone, for their own safety. It was visible to the Divination classroom, so it was hardly ever used for clandestine snogging sessions, but it was open to the air and made for a good place to get away from the crowds for a while, which Mary would be the first to admit was something she often craved. She sat on the railing that surrounded the balcony with her back to the tower wall, wrapping her inside foot firmly around its support as the other dangled in the open air. Eirene took off with a joyful hoot, showing off by dive-bombing the sparrows on a lower roof.

Dave, after giving Mary a look that clearly said he thought she was crazy, sat cross-legged on the floor of the balcony, his back against the other railing so that he could see her as he spoke.

“What did you want to talk about?” Resentment still permeated his tone.

Mary shrugged. It was harder than she had expected, to bring up the topic of patronage with a kid she had hardly spoken to. “How are you liking Slytherin House?”

The boy snorted. “Honestly?”

She nodded.

“It’s bloody awful,” he admitted, his expression torn between anger and fear, as though she might hex him, or tell the House about his moment of weakness.

She smiled ruefully. “Someone tried to trip me down the main stair my third week. And then there was some kind of hallucination potion and that god-awful Hysteria Hex – I was just about convinced they were going to kill me.”

“They like doing this thing that’s like getting bitten by a whole nest fireants,” Dave said, holding out a swollen hand. “And there’s a hex that feels like you’re getting pinched all over, and one that makes it so you can’t talk, and one so you can’t _stop_ talking, and I _hate it_. I don’t belong here. I wish I’d never come.”

Mary cast the counter to the Stinging Hex on his hand, and he watched in amazement as the swelling went down. “You do belong here,” she added quietly. “At Hogwarts and in Slytherin. The Hat is never wrong,” she smirked.

If anything, Dave looked more downcast at that. “The Hat said I should be in Ravenclaw, or Gryffindor, since it’s brave to want to excel in this world as a mudblood.”

“Don’t use that word,” Mary snapped.

Dave jumped. “Sorry, geez.”

“Hermione does that sometimes, using it for herself like it’s no big deal, but you have to understand, it’s like calling someone dago or pikey. Maybe worse, because there’s a lot of purebloods who act like muggles are just animals, and muggleborns aren’t any better.”

The boy glared mutinously at her. “Not really makin’ the argument for Slytherin, are you, then? Since that’s what they all call _me_.”

“Maybe I’m not trying to, ever think of that?” she snapped back. “Slytherin house is full of bigots and entitled little shitheads who’ve been told all their lives that they’re better than everyone else because they’ve got magic or family history or money or all three. And the important thing is, _none of the others are any better_. They’re just less honest and more politically correct.”

Dave snorted. “Told you I don’t belong here at all.”

“You do, though,” she argued. “You’ve clearly got as much magic as any of your class. And you belong in Slytherin every bit as much as I do. I bet you’d end up here, you know.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Are you not the kid who spent all day at Diagon pumping me and my friends for inside information to give you a leg up once you got here instead of running around like a little maniac and marveling at the fact that magic exists?” she asked rhetorically. “Slytherin is not just for entitled little berks, you know – it’s for the kids who are going to succeed against all the odds, and get whatever they want by whatever means necessary.”

“Yeah? Well, what if what they want is me leaving school?”

“You’re missing the point, Rhees. What do _you_ want?”

Dave smiled a little sadly. “To learn magic – to learn everything _about_ magic – and prove to that squib-head Wretchley that I’m a better wizard than he ever will be. And someday to be rich and famous and powerful, obviously.”

Mary couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Um… do you know what a squib is?” Dave shook his head slightly reluctantly. “It’s someone born to a wizarding family who can’t do magic. Like the opposite of a muggleborn.”

“Oh.” Dave turned that bit of information over for a moment. “I guess that’s much more insulting than I thought.”

“Probably,” she nodded. “But not more insulting than mudblood.”

“So if they call me a mudblood, I can call them a squib?”

“Well, it’s rude, and probably not true, if they’ve made it into Hogwarts, but as far as insults go, I think it’s fair.”

“Okay, then. Woah!” he exclaimed as Eirene finally grew bored of hunting the smaller birds and returned to the two humans.

“This is Eirene,” Mary introduced her, hopping off of the balcony to bring the bird to the boy. “She’s a tawny or brown owl. They’re native to Europe and Asia, and probably the most common post-owl in the UK. Want to hold her?” she offered, extending her arm.

Dave nodded hesitantly, and the owl hopped to his shoulder. He froze as she gained her balance, talons gripping him firmly. “She’s lighter than I thought she would be,” he said. “She’s yours?”

Mary nodded. “I got her that day we went to Diagon.”

“My mum got a screech she’s calling Kim, but he lives with her so she can send me stuff without having to wait for me to send her a note or something.”

“Kim?”

“Kimball, after my father. She thought it was funny, making him her errand-boy, so to speak,” the boy sniggered. “He left when I was five, see, ‘cos of the weirdness. Joke’s on him, I guess, since it turns out I’m not a freak after all. Bet mum called him up as soon as I got on the train to rub it in his face.”

“She sounds like a good woman, your mum,” Mary said diplomatically.

Dave made a face. “I guess so. She’s what you’d call a career-woman. Very, like, driven, you know? And she’s a shrink, so it’s just about impossible to lie to her. But she did stick around when Kim left, instead of chucking me in an orphanage and going with him, so I guess she loves me.” Mary didn’t let his casual words fool her – there was genuine fondness on the boy’s face when he spoke of his mother. “What about you? Your family, I mean?”

Mary rolled her eyes, but pleased that he was opening up a bit, responded honestly. “Well, my parents died a long time ago. I hear they loved me very much, but I grew up with my mum’s sister and her husband. They’re a bit like your dad, sounds like. Except they couldn’t get rid of me, so they just left me on my own and made me do chores and stuff while they spoiled Dudley, that’s my cousin, completely rotten. Professor McGonagall’s my guardian now, and I’ve heard a rumor that the Grangers might try to adopt me in the muggle world, but they haven’t actually talked to me about it yet. They’re nice. It’d be good if it was true,” she shrugged. Then, feeling that she had built up enough of a rapport with the kid to bring up the original reason she’d wanted to talk to him, she changed the subject. “I didn’t drag you out here to talk about owls and parents, though, you know.”

“Yeah? Why did you?” he asked, guarded again at once, though perhaps not as much as before. Eh. She would take it.

“I, um… got detention, for defending the Truce that day in the corridor.”

“I didn’t ask you to help!” Dave snapped.

“I _know_ , Merlin and Morgan, calm the fuck down!” The boy subsided, and Mary continued: “For my detention, Snape made me copy out and translate a bunch of Latin on something called the Patronage system, and I asked my summer tutor about it, and just got her response back.”

“What is it? Patronage? And what does it have to do with me?”

“It sounds like it’s kind of, like… maybe a formal system of friendship and alliance, kind of. Between Patrons, who have more power, and Clients, who have less. They trade favors and stuff, and the Patron is meant to protect their Clients, kind of like lords and vassals, in the old King Arthur legends, you know?”

Dave shrugged. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Yeah, well, Catherine says that Snape was implying that since I stopped those idiots from beating on you – incidentally, while defending the Truce,” she added quickly, before he could object to her saving him. “It looks like I was kind of taking you under my wing. She says he was pointing out that we have an opportunity, here. I mean, we don’t have to, but if you want, I can, oh, what was it? Oh, yeah, ‘extend my hand to you in patronage.’ It’s not really like an adoption or fostering, but since we’re both the only members of our families in Magical Britain, and we’re both kids, it would be kind of like making you my kid brother. I would be honor-bound to stand up for you, and help you to ‘navigate the strange currents of unknown social waters,’ like, in the same way that Flint and Bletchley have to look out for their little sibs and stand up for them. Um… only if you want, though.”

Dave gave her a suspicious look, obviously thinking it over. “What’s in it for you?” he asked after several long minutes.

“Ah, well… I’m not going to ask you to swear the formal patronage oath, or anything – we couldn’t anyway, until you’re fifteen at least – but you would owe me big time, indefinitely. Like I would be bound to protect you and help you out, you would be expected to follow through on any favors I asked of you, either for myself or other clients, without keeping score like we normally would between Slytherins. Plus it’s good for my reputation, apparently, to do things like this. Patronage is a traditional system, but helping muggleborns is progressive, and integrating muggleborns into traditional Magical British culture is kind of retro – it was traditional about a hundred years ago. It’ll please anyone who wants to see me in a good light, and piss off anyone who wants to see me in a bad one and get people talking without doing anything… notorious, for lack of a better word.”

“And you want that?” Dave asked, doing his best to raise an eyebrow at her.

Mary shrugged. “They’re going to talk anyway. I’m advised that it’s better if I give them things to talk about rather than making them make up shite.”

“So I’d be like a cross between a charity case and a publicity stunt?” He didn’t look very impressed. “Because I’m not really seeing what favors I could do for you, so…”

“No! Not a charity case or anything like that!” she objected firmly. “I don’t do _charity_ , for one, and for the other, it’s not like I’m planning on advertising it, but these things do have a tendency to get out. Hogwarts runs on pumpkin juice and gossip, if you haven’t figured that out, yet. As for favors, I don’t know what I’d need to ask you to do in the future, just like you don’t know what you’ll need to ask me about as you figure out how to fit in with Slytherin. That’s kind of the point. Mostly I figure you can just hang around with me and Lilian, and Hermione, when she’s not being a crazy person, and we’ll be like, normal friends. The only reason the patronage thing matters at all is I’ll more than likely have to tell the other Slytherins to fuck off at some point using it as an excuse to make your problems my problem.”

Dave considered this. “Hmm… what’s in it for me, then?”

Mary grinned. “If you have to ask that, you really might have been sorted into the wrong house,” she said in a tone of false concern, startling an actual laugh from the boy.

“Yeah, alright, then,” he said, holding out his hand to be shaken, muggle fashion.

Mary took it, and stood, hauling Dave to his feet as well and startling Eirene into flight. “Cool. Call me Elizabeth or Mary or some combination of the two, and come sit with me at lunch,” she grinned.

“Dave,” he replied, following her back into the tower and down the stairs. “Speaking of pumpkin juice and gossip,” he added, “what the hell is in pumpkin juice? I mean, I’m not complaining, but it doesn’t taste at all like pumpkins.”

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

At the Slytherin table, Lilian gave Mary a raised eyebrow as she plonked her newly-adopted firstie on the bench between them. Draco made some crack about collecting strays to Pansy, and Mary glared at him as she introduced Dave to the third-years, after which the younger boy was largely ignored as the discussion turned, inevitably, to Draco’s (and now Lilian’s) crusade to have Hagrid removed from his teaching post. At the very least, it seemed they planned to murder his flobberworms. Draco had acquired several galleons-worth of ragweed, which was poisonous to the poor creatures, and they were currently arguing about the best way to distribute it without the Gryffindors or the so-called professor noticing.

###  Saturday, 18 September 1993

#### The DADA Classroom

Due to the fact that Quidditch practice was now scheduled for Sunday morning, rather than Saturday, Mary was free before lunch and detention to finally visit _Professor_ Remus, whom she had hardly seen outside of class since the train. Their short chat about the Dueling Club and seeing him at the head table in the Great Hall hardly counted.

She knocked hesitantly on the door of the DADA classroom, then entered to see him grading papers at the desk.

“Remus?”

“Hey, Mary,” he said, not looking up. “Come on in! I’ve just got to finish marking… there!” He circled something with a flourish, and threw the essay scroll into a basket.

“Hi! How are you liking the new job?” she asked, levitating one of the student chairs over to sit in front of him.

He checked his watch. “More paperwork than I’d hoped for, I have to say,” he said, glaring at the basket of essays. “My office hours are over now, though, so if you’d like, we can head back to my quarters for tea.”

Mary shrugged and sent the chair back to its place as she followed the professor out of the room. “Why’re you having office hours in the classroom?”

“I haven’t managed to get the smell of Gilderoy Lockhart out of my office yet,” he said, making a disgusted face. “I think he might have somehow replaced the air-freshening charms with something to spray his perfume around the place. It’s revolting.”

The Slytherin couldn’t help but laugh at the ex-Marauder being so thoroughly – and probably unintentionally – pranked by the ponce. She threw herself into an armchair in the guest room Remus was currently occupying – it was decorated in russet and bronze, and might, she thought, have been otherwise exactly the same as the one she stayed in when she first came to Hogwarts.

An elf delivered tea, sandwiches, and biscuits, and Mary poured. They made small talk about her classes and the Slytherins’ first Quidditch practice of the year, which had been _brutal_ , as Flint tried to knock them back into playing shape after a whole summer off. Then Remus started a mock-argument by declaring that he hoped to see a Gryffindor victory in the first match of the season and Mary spent the better part of a quarter-hour trying to convince him to cheer for her rather than his old house. He eventually agreed to cheer for whomever was winning at any given time, which she had to admit was probably the best she was going to get.

“So how do you like teaching?” she finally asked. “Aside from the marking.”

Remus grinned. “It’s been great. Bit odd being back in the castle. I keep rounding corners and expecting James to pop out of nowhere with his cloak, or, well…”

“Black?”

“That obvious, am I?”

“Well, it’s pretty clear by now that you can’t think of one without thinking of the other,” she teased. “Seriously, though, I saw that article in the paper, asking what happened to you. You haven’t been getting, like, howlers and such about him, have you?”

Remus shook his head somewhat sadly. “Nah. Got a few letters from little old ladies extending their condolences for his betrayal, but aside from that, no one seems to care much. It’s just hard, you know, seeing his photo in the papers and on the wanted posters and all. On the other hand, he hardly looks like the kid I used to know, so I suppose that’s good. Let’s not talk about him. What else have you got on besides classes and Quidditch?”

Unlike her friends, Mary did know how to let a subject go. “Well, Professor Flitwick says he’d be happy to set up a dueling club, but from what he said after class, it probably won’t start until next month, and it’ll only be once every other week.”

“Good! I’m glad he agreed. And you’ll need that extra time to practice new spells, I’m sure. What else?”

“Um… Hermione’s taking all of the classes she can, and Lilian thinks we need to have an intervention for her, because she’s driving herself into the ground. She’s been trying to get her alone to talk since Wednesday, but things keep coming up, so we haven’t caught her yet.”

Remus grimaced. “Anything else?”

“Oh, yeah, there’s loads of stuff going on,” Mary smirked. “Lilian and Malfoy are trying to get Hagrid fired because he’s such a rubbish teacher – they’ve been doing flobberworms for three weeks, now – and Hermione’s gotten in a prank war with the Weasley twins.”

“Is that why she was all…”

“Like a little Greengrass clone? Yeah.” The twins, in retaliation for Hermione’s labeling them for the world to see, had cornered her before lunch on Friday and covered her with beauty charms and potions – straightening her hair and dyeing it platinum blonde; shrinking her oversized front teeth; plucking her eyebrows; and expertly applying illusory makeup. They had, possibly inadvertently, hit on one of Hermione’s biggest insecurities: as much as she liked to claim she didn’t care what she looked like, and that brains were more important than appearance, she still didn’t like to draw attention to the fact that she wasn’t one of the pretty girls. She had taken their attack particularly badly, and spent most of Friday afternoon crying in the loo at the implied insult to her natural looks and trying to break the Locking Charm they had laid over the lot of it.

“Why did they…?”

“Revenge. She was the one who put those labels on them on Tuesday.”

Remus winced. “Okay, what else?”

“Maia’s starting a Muggleborn Students’ Association.”

“Oh, yeah, Charity mentioned that.”

“ _Charity_?” Mary teased, causing the man to flush slightly. Mary grinned delightedly. She hadn’t expected that barb to hit home – she’d only made the joke because Professor Burbage was the only witch on staff anywhere near Remus’ age – not counting Professor Sinistra, who was clearly already with Snape, and would probably eat a sweet man like Remus alive.

“Professor Burbage to you, Fawn!” he said in mock-seriousness.

She made a face at the old Marauder nick-name. “Fine, you’re _getting on_ with _Professor Burbage_ , then?”

“We’ve talked a bit, here and there,” he said, with as much dignity as a blushing man her father’s age could manage. “So did you go to the Muggleborn Students’ meeting?”

“I did,” she said, and then, when he raised an eyebrow at her lack of elaboration, added, “I don’t know if I want to go again. It was… I’m not really muggleborn, and I didn’t have the same kind of family most of them did, growing up.”

“So you felt like an outsider?”

“Kind of? It really just drove it home that I don’t really belong anywhere” Remus nodded understandingly. “But at least, oh, I don’t know. A lot of the purebloods have been complete berks, you know, like Malfoy and Parkinson, but like Catherine and Lilian, and even Blaise, Daphne and Theo have tried to help me fit in a lot. The muggleborns at the club were all… bonding, I guess, over muggle stuff, and I didn’t have anything to say.” Remus made a noncommittal noise. “I mean, I know what a computer and a telly are, but I’ve never been allowed to use one except at Hermione’s, and I never played any muggle sports or instruments or anything like that. Besides, I don’t like crowds. It was just awkward.”

“Okay, so we’ve got news about Lilian, Hermione, Hermione _and_ Lilian – got anything that’s just yours?”

Mary was starting to get the impression that Remus knew something, and was trying to get her to admit it. “I had the Dueling Club thing,” she pointed out. “And, um… I may have gotten in a fight the first week of school.”

“Uh _huh_. What was that about?”

“Defending the Truce and the rules of Slytherin House,” Mary hedged.

“ _Really_? Because I heard it was about a certain muggleborn Slytherin getting bullied by half his classmates.”

Mary crossed her arms belligerently and pouted at him. “Well if you already know, why are you asking?”

“Because I want your side of it, of course,” the professor replied with an infuriatingly calm smile.

The third-year huffed at him before elaborating. “Three of the firsties and four of the second-years were kicking the shit out of Dave Rhees in a public corridor for being muggleborn and in Slytherin. I stopped them. Then I got assigned ten hours of detention for it with Snape, and made an offer of informal patronage to Dave.”

“You made a patronage offer?” he asked, surprised.

“Well, yeah. Snape clearly wanted me to – he had me translating this old Latin text on it – and Catherine said it was a good idea. And it’s not like there’s any legal ties or vows at this point, ‘cause we’re both kids, but next time I’ll have an excuse to tell anyone who’s bothering him to fuck off without any other excuse.”

The professor grinned. “Your parents would be proud.”

Mary squirmed uncomfortably before his praise. “Thanks Remus.”

“I’m serious,” he continued. “Lily was very big on muggleborn rights… and James would have been impressed with ten hours’ detention in the first week.”

His grin morphed into a smirk, and Mary had to say, “This from the man who _switched_ Professor McGonagall’s dress for her bathrobe during the Sorting Ceremony her _first_ year as Deputy Head?”

“Ah, but _we_ were _seventh-years_. It’s far more impressive for a third-year to have such an achievement. Does an old man proud.” He wiped a fake tear from his eye.

“You’re forgetting, though, my friends and I have already done you one better – a whole term’s detention, rolling over from last year. A few extra hours means nothing at this point.”

She knew at once that she had made a mistake. A suspicious look came over Remus’ face as he asked, “What exactly did you do to earn that, again, Fawn?”

“Can’t say. Ask Snape,” she reminded him, inspecting a biscuit intensely. There were little sugar snowflakes on it.

“I did. He wouldn’t say.”

“Then I guess I shouldn’t, either,” Mary said, then quickly changed the subject. “Are you sure that whatever is between you two is just ‘an old schoolboy rivalry?’ Because whenever I see you together at meals, he looks at you like he’s going to poison you in your sleep.” Remus chuckled darkly, so she felt the need to emphasize. “I’m not joking. He killed the DADA professor my first year, and he didn’t look like he hated him nearly as much as he hates you, even when he did it.”

“Wait – you _saw_ him kill someone?” Remus asked, clearly taken aback.

“I told you, remember? Quirrell was possessed by Voldemort’s shade?”

“You definitely didn’t say you were there when he died, though. I would have remembered that!” the man objected protectively.

Mary realized belatedly that she must have left that out of her letters, so as not to worry Remus even more than the bare bones of the story were sure to do. She decided in a split-second to play it cool. “Didn’t I? Well, I was. It wasn’t a big deal. I think I told him I wished he had done it sooner – Quirrellmort was trying to kill me all year, you know.”

“I most certainly did _not_ know,” Remus growled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Mary shrugged, shrinking into her chair.

“Mary. Elizabeth. Potter. What were you thinking, hiding this from me?” Mary could sense his fury as a palpable thing, all the way on the other side of the little table. He stared at her intently and let the silence grow heavy between them.

“It wasn’t any of your business!” she said finally. “By the time I found out that he really was trying to kill me, everything was sorted. Snape killed him that same day, and banished Voldemort to… well, wherever he came from. And then I was in hospital, and then I talked to Dumbledore and Snape and Maia and Lils, and it was _ages_ before I had a chance to write you a letter. There was no reason for you to worry about it.”

“I _do_ worry, though,” Remus grumbled, his ire apparently averted. “You’re the only child any of my friends ever had, Mary – the closest thing I’ll ever have to a niece. I haven’t been there for you, and I should have been, and regardless of whether you want me to or not, I _do_ worry when I hear things like ‘The Dark Wanker was possessing my DADA professor all year,’ or ‘I got kidnapped to the Chamber of Secrets, helped kill a basilisk, and wandered around, lost under the school for three days!’”

“Well… _don’t_!” was all she could think to say in return. “It’s not like that was my fault! I don’t go out of my bloody way to find trouble! This is why I didn’t tell you! It would only make you worry _more_!” Remus made an inarticulate noise of frustration as Mary checked the time. “Look, I have to go. I’m going to be late for detention.” She fled, entirely unable to deal with the idea of adults worrying about her and _yet another teacher_ declaring avuncular affection for her.

Her disbelief and confusion did not, however, stop her from catching Snape’s eye when he gave the Conspirators their (horrifying) detention assignment and, half-hoping that he was using legilimency on her at that moment, thinking venomously that _Remus would be a better uncle. He would never make me dissect puppies for potions ingredients!_

###  Monday, 20 September 1993

#### Hogwarts

The first long, Sunday Quidditch practice was no less exhausting than the one on Thursday had been, and it was followed by a meeting with the Professor about her quarterly Gringott’s statement, a meeting with Professor Flitwick about what she hoped to get out of a Dueling Club, and several hours of homework.

According to the Professor, everything looked good with Mary’s properties and investments; Professor Flitwick had excitedly suggested the addition of traditional swordplay and magical knife-fighting to the standard International Dueling Commission forms (it seemed he had heard from a friend on the Continent that Hogwarts’ students might want to brush up on their fighting skills before the next year, for some as-yet-undisclosed reason); and she had managed to get through all of her homework for Monday and Tuesday.

Monday morning still came far too soon.

As was quickly becoming the norm, Mary and Lilian spent the majority of breakfast pouring over the editorial page of the prophet – now in addition to the complaints of the previous week, there was a letter exhorting readers to sign a petition that was going around.

“Have any of you lot heard anything about a petition to get rid of Binns?” Lilian asked the table at large.

Neither Mary nor Dave had, and though Pansy, Vinnie and Greg looked like they thought it was a good idea, they shook their heads as well. Draco offered to sign it, and suggested to Lilian that they should start a petition against Hagrid, too, but it was Millie, of all people, who spoke up and said that her mother had mentioned it in her weekly letter. Apparently Mrs. Bulstrode had seen it posted in Flourish and Blotts after the letter to the editor the previous week complaining about how nothing ever actually got changed, despite periodic complaints against the school. After suffering through five years of the ghost professor’s lessons herself, she had signed it, and was in the process of owling all of her friends to do the same.

“It’s the most excited I’ve ever heard her about anything other than dress robes,” the large girl concluded drily.

“Well, I think it’s an _excellent_ idea,” Daphne chimed in. “As things are now, there’s no point even _going_ to History. Can you imagine what it would be like to actually have a decent professor? We might actually learn something about _why things happened_ , rather than just an endless list of names and dates.”

“You read all that stuff anyway, though, Greengrass,” Pansy pointed out.

“Yes, I do, because I’m proud of my heritage and our history, and I’ve been raised to respect it. I think everyone ought to learn about it, not just those of us who are already interested. I’m going to owl my father about it,” she said, with a note of finality in her tone.

“Hmm…” Tracey hummed, throwing a nasty look at Dave. “You do have a point, Greengrass – how else should muggleborns know exactly how inferior they are, if we don’t educate them properly?”

Mary opened her mouth to speak, but Blaise, who had just walked up to snag an apple before class, beat her to it: “Belt up, Trace,” he said with a yawn. “It’s far too early to debate the relative merits of muggle and magical culture. ‘Sides, you’re just sore you’re one generation from muddy yourself.”

Blaise’s position on blood politics was, so far as Mary could tell, completely neutral, if not outright apathetic. He had to be a pureblood: the Greengrasses almost certainly wouldn’t be talking to his mother about his marriage to Daphne if he wasn’t, and he clearly knew the behavior expected of him in that world. But no one knew who his father was, and his mother, a notorious Black Widow, seemed to choose her husbands by wealth, rather than blood status: it was no secret that she had married at least two muggles. This was apparently acceptable to the Blood Purists in the Dark faction because she had killed them, but she had also raised Blaise to be more than passingly familiar with muggle life and culture. He could give Lilian a run for her money quoting muggle films and plays, for example, and he once mentioned visiting a step-father’s family in New York by airplane. (It was, he said, far more comfortable than International Portkey or Portal-Jumping, though it took far longer.) He occasionally used the same kind of language the Pureblood Supremacists did, talking about muggles as though they were animals, but he also occasionally used that kind of language in reference to purebloods as well. After two years and a bit sharing classes and a common room with him, Mary still wasn’t sure what he _really_ thought about anything.

In any case, his casual dismissal of Tracey’s barb rather diffused the situation before it could escalate any further. He wandered away again before Tracey could form a response, so she was left muttering, “Son of a muggle-lover,” as everyone made their way to class.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

Unfortunately, Blaise’s intercession on behalf of muggleborns (or on behalf of the common decency of waiting until at least lunch to make veiled comments about properly educating them) did nothing to deter Tracey from bringing the subject up again later in the day.

In the hour between the end of classes and the beginning of dinner, she and Melisandre Flint, who had apparently decided to side with her younger brother rather than her elder over the issue of Dave’s existence, had blocked the younger boy into one of the little nooks in the common room, and were staging a conversation about how worthless muggleborns were, to the amusement of a few fourth and fifth-years. Dave was staring at his Charms book with a singlemindedness that suggested he found it impossible to block out their words, his knuckles growing white as he clutched its cover instead of reaching for his wand, his lips growing ever-thinner as he worked to keep his tongue. Mary, distracted from the rest of the room by a question Lilian had asked her about their Astronomy homework, failed to notice the situation until he stood up abruptly and, when they failed to respond to his demands that they move and let him out of the nook, brushed past them roughly.

Melisandre smacked Dave across the face for daring to touch ‘an older woman from an esteemed house’ so rudely, and then a fifth-year, whom Mary had never spoken to, decided to involve himself. The room went quiet as he drawled, “Are you a witch, Miss Flint, or not? Come, let me show you how we reprimand such lowborn rascals in Frankia.”

The older wizard – Le Pard? Le Parc? Something like that, Mary thought – fired off a complicated, sickly-looking purplish curse before Mary could reach them. Dave fell to the floor, screaming and trying to tear his robes off, writhing in pain. Mary, unfamiliar with the spell, stood over him and cast a shield charm over the both of them, rather than attempt to counter it. For all she knew, it could be one of the ones that got _worse_ when a _finite_ was applied.

“Back the fuck off, arsehole,” she growled at (possibly) Le Parc.

“You shame your house,” he responded scornfully, “speaking so unladylike on behalf of this worthless muggle.”

“Mr. Rhees is neither worthless nor a muggle,” she snapped. “He is a _wizard_ and a client of House Potter, and if you ever curse him again, I will make sure you live to regret it!”

“What could a tiny, insignificant blood traitor girl-child from a dying house possibly do to back up that threat, I wonder. Could it be the stories of her triumph over the Dark Lord have gone to her head?” he addressed the surrounding students rhetorically, then scoffed: “I would crush you beneath my heel like an insect!”

_< :Rotting dead frog! Offspring of a mouse, not even worth eating!:>_ Mary swore in Parsel, glaring at the older boy before her before switching back to English. “Don’t underestimate me, shithead! The Heir of Slytherin is more than capable of destroying an ignorant, insignificant boil like you.”

(Possibly) Le Pard did seem disconcerted by her hissing at him, but showed no signs of backing down. In fact, he was raising his wand again, and Mary was tensing, considering frantically whether it would be better to hope whatever he threw at her could be blocked by her weakening _protego_ or to drop it and hit him in the face with a stinging jinx. _This_ was why she needed a dueling club. Lilian stepped up beside her, her own wand poised to cast, but before any of the three of them could do anything, Calvin Strega, the sixth-year prefect, intervened.

“Le Parc! Detention after dinner,” he said calmly, raising an eyebrow at the tableau.

“But, sir! M. Le Parc was defending my honor from this… ruffian,” Melisandre bleated, with a dismissive gesture toward Dave.

“Do you want to join him, Miss Flint? Because it looks to me like he was threatening two third-years who have attempted to defend their… friend,” his mouth twisted around the word, as though he wasn’t entirely sure it was accurate, “from an unprovoked attack by a wizard four years his senior.”

“The little blood traitor threatened me first!” Le Parc hissed.

Mary sneered at him. “I’ve got a room full of witnesses who saw you curse my client before I came anywhere near you, Le Parc.”

“Get lost, frog-face,” Lilian added, as Strega shooed the crowd away, reminding them that they would be late for dinner.

Apparently recognizing that he would get nowhere with the prefect (who, like all the prefects, had been ordered to look out for the sole muggleborn Slytherin), Le Parc stormed off, throwing unnervingly hateful glances back at the third-years. Mary shivered, certain that they hadn’t seen the last of him.

“You two go on,” Strega instructed the girls, after most of the house had dispersed, then added with a look at the still-moaning boy, “I’ll take Mr. Rhees to the hospital wing.”

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

The next morning, contrary to Mary’s premonition of doom, Le Parc was nowhere to be seen. First-year Alexander Piltdown and second-year Nora Blum joined Mary, Lilian, and the recently-released Dave at breakfast, but the older boy, along with his supporters from the night before, seemed to be going out of his way to avoid her.


	13. The Slytherin Solution to Troubles with Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of this chapter is told from Lilian's perspective, so for anyone who is confused Mary is referred to as Liz in the narration and Hermione is Jeanie because that is how Lilian thinks of them.

###  Tuesday, 21 September 1993

#### Hogwarts

##### Lilian

“Hey, Jeanie! Wait up! We need to talk to you!” Lilian called, hurrying out of Flitwick’s classroom after her friend. Liz trailed along behind. Lilian knew full well that the younger girl was still uncomfortable with the plan, despite agreeing to go along with it in the face of the older Slytherin’s emotional manipulation. She felt a bit bad about that, actually. She normally refrained from pushing Lizzie’s buttons, since it was almost too easy, but she firmly believed that this would be the best course of action in the long run, and Jeanie was more likely to agree if Liz was already on board, no matter how reluctantly.

Due to the resumption of Quidditch practices in addition to detentions and their usual class work, what Lilian was privately thinking of as ‘The Time Turner Talk’ still had not occurred. After spending the entire weekend trying to catch both Liz and Jeanie free at the same time, she decided she would have to corner Hermione after their first shared class of the week after which both Slytherin and Ravenclaw had a free period. It was simply too risky to wait any longer. Liz might catch on to the fact that Lilian was manipulating her at any time, and then she would _never_ agree to help.

“Lili! Liz! Does it have to be now? I have to finish something before my next class.”

Liz wavered, but Lilian barged ahead. “Yes. Now. Come on, it’s important.” She grabbed Jeanie by the arm and dragged her bodily into the nearest empty classroom.

“Lili… Lilian! What on Earth is so important?”

“This is an intervention,” Lilian said as solemnly as she could, despite her excitement. Why Liz and Jeanie _weren’t_ excited about the existence of a Time Turner, not to mention their access to one, she had no idea.

Jeanie stared at her in astonishment. “What?”

“We know about the Time Turner, Maia,” Liz said, closing ranks with Lilian between the Ravenclaw and the door.

“Time Turner? What the hell are you on about? I haven’t got a Time Turner!” Hermione objected.

“Hermione Jean Granger!” Lilian used her most-disappointed tone. “I can’t _believe_ you would _lie_ to your _friends_ about something like this!” Friendship was almost as easy a button with Jeanie as it was with Liz, and she knew that Jeanie had been told off by her parents for lying on more than one occasion.

The Ravenclaw sputtered for a few seconds. “But – I’m not lying!”

Liz sniggered, probably at their older friend’s badly-faked tone of indignant offence. “The twins say you _have_ got one.”

“What?!” Jeanie’s screech, Lilian was fairly certain, could be heard in the Great Hall. “How do those sodding bastards know about it?”

“So you admit it!” Lilian pounced. Not that it hadn’t entirely been given away when Hermione hadn’t asked what a Time Turner _was_.

“What? No! No Time Turner!”

“Prefect Weasley had one, too, apparently,” Liz explained, ignoring Jeanie’s protests. “They’ve seen you on the Marauders’ Map in two places at once.”

“Goddamnit! Yes, fine, I have a Time Turner, what about it?”

“I knew it!” the blonde Slytherin crowed. That was the first hurdle overcome – now all they needed was for Jeanie to agree that she should use it to the fullest possible extent.

Which might be easier said than done, because Jeanie looked furious. “Oh, stuff it, Lili.”

Liz, on the other hand, just looked a bit lost. “Why wouldn’t you tell us?” Lilian mentally smacked herself for not realizing that their younger friend would likely be upset by Jeanie’s lying to her, especially since she had been defending the older girl, and Lilian had been pouring words like _trust_ in her ears. Oops.

“I wasn’t allowed!” the Ravenclaw protested angrily. “There’s all kinds of ways I can get kicked out of the program for next year, and most of them have to do with telling other people I have the Time Turner. You two have just completely ruined _everything_!” There were tears of frustration in her eyes.

Lilian instantly felt guilty, and from the look on her face, Liz did as well. Still, she refused to admit it. It was too late to back out of the confrontation now. “Liz told you, the twins already knew. And it’s stupid to think you could keep it a secret the whole year, anyway.”

“That’s the whole _fucking_ point, Lilian! You can’t be an Unspeakable if you can’t keep a secret!”

“Maybe they won’t blame you, because we figured it out on our own?” Liz suggested.

Jeanie buried her face in her hands, growling in frustration. “What did you even want?”

“We were worried about you,” Lilian explained in a very small voice. “We – I,” she revised, on spotting Lizzie’s warning look, “think that you’re working yourself too hard.”

“So you thought you’d just go poking your nose in where it’s not welcome and ruin a great opportunity for me? _Thanks_ , Lilian. I don’t know _what_ I’d do without you.”

“That’s not fair,” Liz leapt to her fellow Slytherin’s defense. “We didn’t know you couldn’t talk about it. Last time you were all secretive like this you turned yourself into Catgirl.”

“So you just assumed I was hiding something? You don’t think I learned anything from that?”

“Just the difference between human and cat hair,” Lilian sniped, but Jeanie ignored her.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, there, Elizabeth. You just – urgh! You know what? I’m done. I can’t talk to you right now.” She dug a glittering bauble out of her robes and fiddled with it for a moment before disappearing right in front of them with a sniffle.

“Well,” Lilian said drily, staring at the spot where their friend had, until recently, stood. “That could have gone better.”

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

It was a rather red-eyed Jeanie who eventually showed up to Arithmancy. She hadn’t appeared at all during lunch, and according to a worried Padma Patil, she had missed History as well. Lilian watched out of the corner of her eye as the other Ravenclaws fluttered around her friend, asking what was wrong and where she had been during class. Her answer was too quiet for Lilian to make out, but it must have been something along the lines that they had had a fight, because Padma glared at Liz and Lilian’s table and put a protective arm around the bushy-haired girl.

Liz sighed, obviously resigned to not-speaking with Jeanie again for several days, at least, but Lilian wasn’t having it. A soon as Professor Vector dismissed them, she stomped right up to the little clique of Ravenclaws and demanded to speak to her friend.

“You can’t just run away any time someone says something you don’t want to hear,” she glared at the older girl. _Nobody_ just _walks away_ from Lilian Grace Moon!

“Back off, Moon!” Mandy Brocklehurst demanded, stepping forward so that she and Padma were both between Jeanie and the Slytherins, but Jeanie laid a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s okay, Mandy. I have to deal with them eventually.”

“Are you sure?” Padma asked. “You seemed really upset, earlier.”

“I was. I still am, actually,” she glared at Lilian before turning back to her roommate. “But yes, it’ll be better if we get this over with.”

“We can wait, if you want,” Mandy offered. Padma nodded earnestly.

“It’s fine. You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

“If you’re sure…” Padma sent a concerned look at her fellow Raven.

“We just want to apologize,” Liz said quietly. _Give that girl a biscuit_ , Lilian thought sardonically. She really was quite good at getting what she wanted, when she didn’t think too hard about it.

Mandy sniffed derisively. “I’m sure. Just remember, we’re keeping an eye on you Snakes.”

Lilian smirked. “I’m sure you are. Run along now.”

As the Ravenclaws left, Mandy angry, and Padma still clearly concerned, Liz had to ask, “Did you have to be so condescending?”

“Hmmm… yes,” Lilian decided as she steered Jeanie into another empty room. The older girl jerked her arm away roughly. “Don’t you dare slip off again. You have to listen to us!”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything, Lilian Moon!” Hermione snapped.

“Oh, _Moon_ , is it, Granger? Look, I’m sorry we messed up your secret program thing, but obviously no one ever told _us_ we weren’t supposed to ask questions.” She filed away the funny look on Liz’s face at that. She would have to ask the younger girl about it later, but right now, it would just be a distraction. “What, do you want to have all stupid friends instead? Go hang around Brown and Red Patil – I’m sure they’d never think to ask where you’re at all the time. Blue Patil and Brocklehurst probably know as well, and it’s only a matter of time until the twins expose you if you keep pissing them off. Liz and I only brought it up because we care about you!”

“Oh, you _care_. You care so much you would rather butt in where you’re not wanted than trust that there are some things that just _aren’t your business_ , you nosey _bitch_!”

“Hermione…” Liz tried to break up the spat, but Lilian talked over her. The sooner they got this out of the way, the better. She still hadn’t gotten to make her point, after all.

“ _I’m_ a nosey bitch? That is _rich_ coming from _you_. Which one of us decided we needed to get involved in the Chamber of Secrets mess? Which one of us can’t stand having a mystery in front of her for more than two seconds? Who was convinced it was a good idea to chase Snape into that bloody obstacle course?”

“Lilian…”

“YOU!” Jeanie nearly shouted. “You are simply incorrigible! And those were big things, and you were right there with me. You – you’re a _gossip_. You can’t help getting up in everyone’s business, telling stories with the Hufflepuffs and Pansy Parkinson and making things up when what you’ve got to trade isn’t good enough! I know you’re the one who made up the story about Eloise Midgen and Steve Cornfoot getting caught in a broom cupboard!”

“They were! I had it from Sean!”

“So what, Lilian? So _bloody_ what? Even if you _did,_ it’s not any of your business either way! Just like it’s not your business what I’m doing every minute of the day or how I’m getting all my lessons in!”

“It is our business when we’re worried about our friend! You’ve been working yourself into the ground, Jeanie, and none of the Ravenclaws are going to say Jack!”

“Why? Because they don’t _care_ like you do? D’you think I’m an idiot, Lilian? I know what you’re doing! Implying you’re my _real_ friends, right? Well, Padma and Mandy haven’t said anything because they know how important my studies are to me!”

“Guys, _please_ don’t fight. Not like this!” Liz was obviously uncomfortable with this escalation from the older girls’ usual bickering.

Lilian ignored her protests. This was _not_ the time to placate her less emotionally competent friend. There would be time for that after she finished getting her point across. “Everybody in the sodding school knows that, moron! You don’t need to prove it by working twenty-seven hours a day!”

What Jeanie might have said next, Lilian and Liz never discovered, as there was a loud knock on the open door.

All three girls turned to look at the smirking redheads standing there. “Bad time, loves?” “We’d come back later,” “but we don’t want to.”

“What _do_ you want? We’re kind of in the middle of something here,” Lilian snapped.

“What do we want, Fred?”

“Excellent question, George!”

“Fame?”

“Fortune?”

“Pretty bird?”

“Repayment for the _ten galleons_ worth of potions ingredients _someone_ ruined by transfiguring them into other ingredients?”

“Reckon that’d be a good start.”

The boys glared intently at Jeanie, who groaned and muttered what Lilian thought was, “Why me?” under her breath.

“It’s one thing to ruin our pranks.”

“We respect that, to be right honest.”

“Takes a good bit of skill to get one over on us.”

“That it does, Fred.”

“Bit cute, we thought.”

“Flirty,” George nodded.

Then Fred changed the tone of their tirade to match their still-menacing glares: “But ratting out who’s who to the whole school?”

“Burbage gave us detention for a month!”

“Vector threatened to have us _expelled_ , Granger!”

Hermione blanched, but refused to back down. “You shouldn’t have been switching classes, then!” she defended herself weakly.

One twin tried to talk over her, but the other stopped, him, changing tracks. “Oh, _so sorry,_ Miss _Perfect,_ ”

“We can’t all have bloody Time Turners!”

“Thought you’d learned your lesson, we had,”

“Yeah, and don’t think we didn’t notice you didn’t reverse _all_ of our little improvements!”

“But you couldn’t let it go, could you?”

“Sabotaging our supplies?”

“That’s low, Granger!”

“And it wasn’t low to turn me into a bloody _catgirl_?” Jeanie finally got another word in edge-wise. “You sodding bastards never even apologized!”

“Bloody hell, you’re still on about that?” Whichever Weasley was speaking looked, Lilian thought, genuinely surprised. She and Liz hovered on the edge of the conversation. Apparently Liz was just as much at a loss as Lilian herself. Perhaps moreso – at least Lilian had been keeping up with the gossip floating around about the latest Weasley pranks gone wrong – Liz never bothered.

“I was a _catgirl_ for _weeks_! That potion’s not meant for animal transformations! What if I hadn’t been able to figure out how to get back to normal?! You bloody wankers certainly didn’t have any ideas. _At least we got you a girl cat, Firecracker_ ,” she said mockingly. “ _Morons!_ You could have killed me, you didn’t know!”

“Well _you_ nearly killed _George_!” Hermione gaped at (presumably) Fred.

The other boy mimicked Hermione’s mocking tone. “Oh, I’ll just transfigure some ground porcupine quills into ground dillweed! Replace the alum with baking powder! Surely _nothing_ will _blow the bloody lab to bits_!”

Hermione scowled. “Don’t give me that shite. All the important stuff is behind imperturbable wards.”

“Not _us_!” Fred objected.

“You’re obviously fine! Besides, you self-righteous jackasses deserve everything you get! You dragged my best friend into the Chamber of sodding Secrets so you could go fight a fucking _Basilisk_ with –”

The boys responded as one. “ _We had to save Ginny!_ ”

“You’re not even _sorry_!”

“No! If we had to,” “We’d do it again!”

Apparently Liz had had enough at that point, because she turned on her heel and left without a word, slamming the door behind her. Lilian didn’t blame her. If she had been kidnapped and then told that her kidnappers didn’t even regret their decision, she would have been hard pressed not to hex them, at least. But there was no way Liz could take on the two pranksters, even with the help of Jeanie and herself. They’d have to be sneakier about their revenge.

“ _Like I said,_ self-righteous jackasses! And _that_ is why I’m going to continue making your lives a living hell, you obnoxious, overgrown Griffin-shites!”

One of the boys – Fred? – stepped forward with a growl, his fingers white on his wand, but his brother grabbed his arm and hauled him back. “No. No! Don’t you dare, Freddie! We came here to get our money back and put a stop to this, not hex the bint into next week. We are not going to get into a sodding war with Ravenclaw over this!” _Smart move_ , Lilian thought. Ravenclaw could be bloody dangerous when crossed. They hardly ever involved themselves in an inter-house war, but they just might rouse themselves on behalf of their newest rising star.

“You heard her, George, she’s planning to keep on mucking us around!”

“Granger, what will it take to make this go away?” the clearly-more-levelheaded twin asked.

A speculative look crossed the older girl’s face, then blossomed into an evil grin. “Well an apology would be a good start, but since you’ve just admitted that you wouldn’t mean it… I want the Map.”

“No sodding way!” Fred snapped, but George, still holding onto his arm, dragged him aside, casting some kind of privacy charm around them so they could argue without the girls listening in. After a very long minute, Fred jerked away, breaking the charm. “Fine! But we want you to swear that you’re not going to use it against us.”

“Not _just_ swear,” his brother corrected. “We want a _truce_ _oath_.”

“What?” Jeanie asked flatly, clearly not having read of such a thing.

“You swear on your magic that you will let bygones lie, and not seek retribution or retaliate for past actions on their part,” Lilian explained, quietly impressed that the Weasleys knew of such things, let alone had thought to use it here. She had only found out about them over the summer, and the book they had been in was more than a bit Dark. “It’s not quite as solid as an Unbreakable Vow, but there’s still a penalty for breaking it.”

“An Oathbreaker’s Mark,” one of the boys added.

Lilian continued. “Basically you draw a line under everything between you and start fresh, or you get branded and everyone knows your word isn’t worth shite.”

“Would that apply to them, too?” Hermione asked.

“Obviously,” “Truce goes both ways.” Lilian nodded in confirmation.

“Fine. I get the map, and we swear a truce.”

“ _And_ you pay for the ingredients you ruined!”

Jeanie bit her lip. “Okay, I guess that’s fair.”

“Here.” One of the boys held out a grubby, folded bit of parchment and tapped it with his wand. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” The ink had barely begun to spread across the page, just as Liz had described, when he muttered the counter-key: “Mischief managed.”

The Ravenclaw took the map gingerly and tucked it into her pocket before turning back to Lilian. “Alright. How does this oath work, then?”

Lilian took a moment to scribble out the terms of an oath on a scrap of parchment, wracking her memory for the official wording, and held it out to her friend. “Hold your wand to your heart, yeah, like that, and read this off.”

The older girl gave her a rather dubious look, but she did as instructed: “I, Hermione Jean Granger, swear upon my honor to uphold a truce with Fred and George Weasley, taking no further revenge for the Catification Incident or the Chamber of Secrets Debacle,” (The Weasleys sniggered at Lilian’s names, but there was no doubt they all knew what they were talking about, which was the important thing.) “or for any other pranks or mischief caused by them before this day, unless they should break their own vow of truce with me. Twice and thrice-sworn before enemies and allies, and the eyes of Magic Itself. So mote it be.”

There was a flash of light from Jeanie’s wand, a spark that separated into three and sank into each of the others’ foreheads as well as her own. They shivered. Lilian breathed a silent sigh of relief. She had never actually written an oath before. She didn’t know anyone who had. In fact, she probably wasn’t supposed to have read the book on them – her mother kept it on the top shelf in her personal study (which, of course, was why Lilian had deemed it interesting enough to read over the summer when she could be doing far more entertaining things than reading non-fiction). She was glad it had worked.

“Your turn,” she said, holding out another bit of parchment for the twins.

They read it together: “We, Fredrick Gideon and George Fabian Weasley, do swear upon our honor to uphold a truce with Hermione Granger, taking no further revenge for any pranks or mischief caused by her before this day, unless she should break her own vow of truce with us. Twice and thrice-sworn, before enemies and allies, and in the eyes of Magic Itself. So mote it be.”

The light-show repeated itself, and after a moment, one of the boys spoke up. Probably Fred. He’d been the more antagonistic the whole time. “Ten galleons, Granger, and then we’re quits!”

Jeanie looked rather uncertain for the first time since the boys had barged in. “I haven’t got ten galleons.”

“Well you’d better get it!”

“You owe us – destruction of property!”

“I didn’t bugger up _everything_ , you imbecils! Only a few sickles-worth, here and there.”

“Unless you plan on sorting out what you _did_ bugger up, you owe us for the lot of it!”

“Fine! I’ll come by after dinner and put everything to rights, and then we’re done!”

“Good!” The boys answered angrily.

“Alright then!”

The Weasleys left the room with a final glare. As soon as they were gone, Hermione sagged into a nearby chair.

Lilian perched hesitantly on its desk and laid a hand on her friend’s back. “Are you okay?”

Jeanie looked like she was about to start crying again. She leaned her head against the Slytherin’s side, their argument apparently forgotten in the face of the twins’ assault. “Fourteen’s getting off to a great start.”

Lilian winced. At least part of that was her fault. She had completely forgotten the Ravenclaw’s birthday, and she was willing to bet that Liz had, too. “Look, Jeanie, I’m sorry. We’re planning a surprise party for Sunday, and the actual date slipped our minds.”

Hermione sniffled. “It’s not today, Lilian, it was _last_ Sunday.”

“I know that,” the Slytherin said automatically, then quickly tried to backtrack. “I, erm… I mean we forgot, but then we remembered, and that’s why we’re having a party next weekend.”

The red-eyed girl glared at her. “I know you’re lying to me, Lilian. Just – just stop it!”

“Fine! You caught me! We completely forgot! I’m sorry! I’ll make it up to you, though. We really will have a party next weekend for you.”

Jeanie shook her bushy head violently. “That won’t even come _close_ to making it up to me. Forgetting my birthday is literally the _least_ awful part of all this!” There were tears in her eyes again.

Lilian hid a grimace. This wasn’t going well at all. “Look, we didn’t want to ruin your day, and… and I’m sorry for pushing you. This all just got… way out of hand. All we really wanted to say is we think you should use the thing more, get some bloody sleep instead of running yourself ragged. We know you can be in three places at once. Just… _do_ that. If anyone could use a few more hours in the day, it’s you.”

“People will notice. Other people. I’m not supposed to be seen. Can’t run into myself. Can’t change anything. Bad things happen when you meddle with time.”

The Slytherin snorted. That had to be the biggest understatement of the century. Of _course_ bad things happened if you meddled with time. You could get lost in another timeline, or cause a paradox like in that old horror tale about crazy Emmett Brown. Everyone knew that. But still… “They wouldn’t give you – schoolkids – that thing if you could really mess it up _that_ badly.”

Jeanie snorted in return. “That assumes they have some common sense, Lili.”

“Look, if the problem is just being seen, ask Liz if you can borrow the cloak. We really are worried about you.”

Jeanie laughed humorlessly. “Can you just imagine what I could do with the cloak, the map, _and_ a time turner?”

“Camp out in the restricted section for _days_?” Lilian offered innocently.

The Ravenclaw tried to look offended, but failed miserably. “Like you wouldn’t.”

“Maybe.” If she did, it would be for the sheer naughtiness of the adventure, or maybe bragging rights. Jeanie was just that much of a swot. In Lilian’s opinion, that was an important distinction. “Anyway, just think about it, yeah? And even if you don’t decide to go for it, at _least_ steal a few more hours and _sleep._ ”

“Yeah, I’ll think about it. Thanks Lili.”

“What are friends for?” Lilian winked, and hopped off the desk. “Now, those of us who _don’t_ have control over their place in time are about to be late to class, so…”

“Yeah, I’ll see you later.”

Lilian slipped out the door with a flutter of fingers. _All according to plan… more or less._

###  Wednesday, 22 September 1993 (Mabon)

#### The Room of Requirement

On Tuesday, when Mary had stormed out of the classroom where Hermione and the twins were arguing, she had been furious, at all of them – the twins, for kidnapping her in the first place; Lilian, for bringing up Hermione’s time turner problem, and dragging Mary into it; and Hermione, too, for the way she seemed to be using Mary’s experience in the Chamber almost as an excuse for her (very dangerous sounding) prank against the twins. She had, in fact, been so angry, that she could not think of a single thing to say to any of them – all that came to mind was a string of inarticulate swearing. She did, however, have enough sense to know that she didn’t have to stand around listening to that kind of bullshit, so she left.

She spent the remaining time before her last class of the day in the library, where she found her new little trio of underclassmen trying to look up defensive jinxes, and pointed them in the right direction. Not only was it almost as satisfying imagining using some of those jinxes on the Weasley twins as it would be to cast them (she knew she would feel bad to see them actually suffering, but wishing it on them vindictively still felt good), but she also got the satisfaction of knowing she had been of some assistance to her young Client. Hopefully, if he and his new friends could defend themselves a bit, the other firsties and second-years at least would back off, and Alex and Nora would stick around.

Class passed quickly enough, with Mary ignoring Lilian’s attempts to get her to talk, sitting between Blaise and Theo instead of in her usual place. She still was not very good at giving people the silent treatment, however, so by the end of dinner she had caved, and was answering the older Slytherin’s attempts to draw her out. On the way to Quidditch practice, in relative privacy, since Draco had taken to walking out with Vinnie and Greg, Lilian filled her in on the outcome of the argument, and the fact that they had forgotten Hermione’s birthday.

Mary wasn’t sure if she was more or less irritated when she heard that Hermione had agreed to give up her crusade against the Weasleys, but she did agree that they weren’t exactly prepared to enter a full-on pranking war with the Twin Terrors. And she agreed to lend Hermione the invisibility cloak until she found a better way to not be seen in three places at once. It was the least she could do to after forgetting the other girl’s birthday ( _again_ ). But she stubbornly insisted that Hermione would have to ask her for it herself.

Still, one of the most magical things about Hogwarts was that Mary was almost always kept too busy to dwell on any single upset for too long. Quidditch practice was exhausting, and by the time she hit the showers, she felt she had taken out all of her anger and frustration on the air. It had showed – Flint was torn between congratulating her on her flying, and tearing her a new arsehole for taking stupid risks all night. She still thought she might try to lead a bludger into one of the Gryffindor beaters during their first match of the season, just for their ‘not sorry’ attitude, but that was just a matter of principle – she was now far too tired to get emotionally worked up over them anymore, at least that night.

And then on Wednesday morning a package arrived, brought in with all the other post at breakfast by an anonymous eagle owl. There was no note, only _Mary Elizabeth Potter, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_ , scrawled across the plain brown wrappings with the copperplate script of a dictaquill. This was surrounded by a series of postmarks in different colored inks: A bird and flag motif she didn’t recognize in red and blue; the ICW’s globe and crossed wands in green; the French _fleur de lis_ that shifted from silver to gold, and the golden M and wand of the British Ministry. That and the French postmark had been on all the letters Hermione had sent her from France. Catherine said they were added as the letters were sent across the Channel. There was also a wax seal – green, with a pine tree pressed into it; and a large “Approved – Import Class I” stamp, which she presumed had something to do with customs.

She lifted it from the serving plate of eggs, making a face at the owl. Sometimes she thought hired owls deliberately tried to find the worst possible place to set their burdens down. It felt like a book. She hesitated to open packages from strangers, but if it had indeed cleared international customs, it was probably harmless. Class I artifacts and creatures generally were.

“What’s that?” Lilian asked, finally having set down the editorials pages long enough to see that Mary had gotten a package.

“A book, I think.”

“Who sent it?”

“No idea.”

“Well, are you going to open it?”

“Would you _give me a minute?_ Merlin’s pants!”

Lilian laughed as she ripped open the paper. It was, indeed, a book. It was rather thin – only a little larger than _Le Petit Prince_ , if Mary did not consider the heavy black leather cover. Like the older books in the Hogwarts library, it had a buckle to hold the covers closed, and no outside title. She opened it eagerly, wondering what it could possibly be, and who might have sent it to her, as there was no note in the wrappings, either. The first thing that came to mind, probably because she had just looked at it earlier that morning, was the invisibility cloak, which had appeared similarly mysteriously, without a note. Perhaps this was also from Dumbledore?

The first page read:

_Lingua Serpentis_  
Historia et Usuum  
  
Zurinye Slitherinis Secunda  
  
1404

“Nine hells!” Lilian whispered, peering over her shoulder. Mary ignored her.

Okay, so it probably wasn’t from Dumbledore. Mary’s Latin wasn’t the best, even after all the translating she’d done for Snape’s detentions, but she knew ‘Lingua Sepentis’ meant ‘Snake Language.’ Unfortunately, that didn’t really narrow down who had sent it.

Lilian was examining the post-marks, now. “This is the ABMG mark,” she said, pointing at the stamp Mary hadn’t recognized. “Do you even know anyone in America?”

Mary shook her head. After her establishing herself in Slytherin in first year, and the Chamber of Secrets incident second year, it was very common knowledge that The Girl Who Lived was a Parselmouth, but was she so well-known even in the States? She shuddered to think it. Perhaps it was meant to be deliberately misleading, or someone had sent it to her over their summer holidays, in an effort to curry favor? But if that was the purpose, surely whoever had sent it would have included a note. She briefly considered Snape, belatedly recalling the potions knife she was almost certain was from him, but he had no reason to post something to her, and certainly not from America. He could have just handed it to her after class.

She turned a few pages, idly examining them as she wondered where the book could possibly have come from. Again like many of the older library books, it was hand-written. The leaves were parchment, yellowed and musty with age, hand-sewn into the binding. The main text, beautifully copied gothic Latin, had faded slightly. The wide margins were heavily annotated by several different hands, also mostly in Latin, though there were a few scribbles that might have been very old English. Finally, there were pages and pages of notes written in cramped English and folded between the last page of the book and the back cover.

When she unfolded these, she found the first page mostly blank, save for a very odd message:

_Ad Filia Prima de Familiae Slytherinis,  
on this the occasion of her thirteenth year._

So anyone who had already sent her a birthday present was out. The dedication was followed by a note that had clearly been added later, with a different quill, though by the same hand:

_Belated, I assure you, through no fault of my own. Are you aware that all owls sent to you without a location are returned to sender? It is most vexing. I assure you, there are better owl-wards out there that can screen undesirable post without turning away perfectly harmless books as well. _

_A bit of free advice for Mabon: get your bloody wards tuned!_

Both Mary and Lilian sniggered at that, which earned them a curious look from Dave and Alex. The Professor had explained that there were anti-tracking spells on her which had resulted in her official letters from the bank and St. Mungo’s being delayed, so she _had_ known about the post issue. That didn’t bother her nearly as much as the fact that it confirmed Snape hadn’t sent it – he was the one who had made her untraceable, so he would already know about her post needing to be sent to a place rather than to her personally.

“So…” Lilian said slowly, “who do you think sent it?”

“Still no idea,” Mary sighed. “Suppose I can ask Snape about it during office hours, see if he has any suggestions.” She didn’t want to – she was still a bit put out with him over the detentions – but he _was_ her Head of House.

Lilian nodded, just as Hermione approached, somewhat less bouncily than usual. “Hi, guys,” she said quietly. “You have a free first period, right?” The Slytherins nodded together. “Can I talk to you, then? Privately?”

“Don’t mind us,” Alex grinned, but Dave looked at his watch and stood up with a yelp.

“We’ve got to go, Al! We’re going to be late for Herbology.”

“Oh, Merlin’s balls!” the shorter firstie complained. “All right, let’s go, then. Swot.”

The boys ran off, joining the majority of the students as the Great Hall cleared out.

“What’s up, Maia?” Mary asked, tucking the book into her pocket. Having slept on it, and certain from Lilian’s report that Hermione had finally washed her hands of the twins once and for all, she was willing to put yesterday behind them if the Ravenclaw was.

“I’ve decided to take your advice,” the older girl said to both of them, without preamble. “This is my second time through this morning, and I was wondering, Elizabeth, could I borrow your cloak? I really, really can’t be seen. I would be in _so_ much trouble – Snape’s detentions would be nothing in comparison.”

Mary had been expecting this, which was why she had dug the little box that contained the cloak out of her trunk just that morning. She nodded, looking around as surreptitiously as she could. There were still a few seventh-years lingering at all the tables, and the Hufflepuff first or second-years – Mary wasn’t sure which. At least all of their fellow third-years had elected to skip breakfast, or had gone off to finish last-minute homework. “I have it with me, but I can’t give it to you here,” she added in a whisper.

“C’mon,” Lilian said excitedly. “Aerin found a new passage I want to show you!”

She led them out into the Entrance Hall, then up one flight of stairs, and down a side-corridor, before quoting what Hermione said was Shakespeare to a trio of monks in a portrait that slid aside to reveal a solid wooden door.

“Where does this go?” Hermione asked, momentarily distracted from her quest to acquire the invisibility cloak.

“Just across to the opposite corridor, over by Sinistra’s classroom.”

“So it’s not really a short-cut,” Mary observed. They could have taken a left instead of a right at the top of the stairs and gotten to the classroom just as quickly.

“No, but it’s _fascinating_ ,” Hermione said, bouncing once again, “because it has to be in some sort of other-space – there’s no way for a passage to actually _exist_ between here and the other side of the floor. It would have to go right through the Main Stair. I wonder how it works…” she trailed off, beaming at the walls around them.

“Well, you now have all the time in the world to figure it out,” Lilian teased her. “And it’s not even forbidden like the Restricted Section.”

“Right, that reminds me – Lizzie?” she gave the dark-haired Slytherin her best puppy-dog eyes. The effect was somewhat ruined by her excitement, but Mary dug the box out of her pocket anyway.

“Please, please be careful with this, Maia. It’s a family heirloom, and the only thing I have of my dad’s. It’s pretty much irreplaceable. I’ll let you use it, but only until you find some other way to make yourself invisible. Okay?”

“Deal!”

“Alright.” Mary opened the box, allowing her friend to remove the cloak, which she folded neatly and tucked into a pocket.

“I won’t let anything happen to it!” Hermione threw herself upon the younger girl in a very frizzy hug. “Thanks, Lizzie! You’re the best!”

“Hey, what about me?” Lilian pouted, and received a hug of her own.

“You can both be the best, then. Tied for it.”

The Slytherins giggled. Then Mary said, “And Maia?”

“Yes?”

“I – I’m sorry I forgot your birthday. Again.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s fine, Lizzie. Besides, I hear there’s a party on Sunday.”

Mary nodded eagerly. “I’ll make sure there’s cake,” she said with a grin.

“Perfect!”

“So are you going to the Mabon ritual?” Lilian asked, changing the subject as the trio headed toward the door.

Hermione looked momentarily haunted, and then shuffled rather awkwardly. “I kind of already did.”

Mary and Lilian exchanged a look. Lilian summed up their thoughts in a single phrase. “Time travel is so weird.”

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

After that, the day passed uneventfully until noon, when the Slytherins and many of the Ravenclaws reported to a room on the seventh floor for the Mabon ritual. Mary had never been there before, but that wasn’t entirely surprising. She had never finished her systematic investigation of every room and secret passage in the school, and she hardly had any reason to wander around Gryffindor territory most days.

The room was located across from a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls to dance. Its door was open when she and Lilian arrived, and beyond it, they heard the sound of many excited voices in an enclosed space – rather like the Great Hall before the Welcome Feast. They entered rather hesitantly, and found themselves in what appeared to be a maple grove, the walls and everyone who was already there lost in a maze of red and orange leaves, filled with the scent of autumn and cloud-filtered light. The branches were too thick to see the sky, save for flashes of cloudy grey, but the floor was apparently leaf-carpeted soil.

“What _is_ this place?” Lilian whispered in awe.

“No one knows,” Hermione answered, popping out from behind a tree with Ginny Weasley. “One of your prefects suggested it’s a portal, and one of mine said that we couldn’t have left Hogwarts, but it could be one of those doors that opens to a different place on certain days.”

“Hi, guys,” Ginny muttered.

Mary and Lilian greeted her pleasantly before Mary asked, “So you think this is some special Mabon doorway that leads to… what? Somewhere in the Senior Woods?”

Hermione shrugged. “Why not?”

“That is the biggest load of rubbish I’ve ever heard,” Draco said, wandering into their little clearing with Pansy and Millicent. “Why wouldn’t we come here every year, if it was here every year?”

“Nobody asked you, Draco!” Lilian snapped.

“So you two are on the outs again?” Mary asked. She could hardly keep up with the status of her fellow Slytherins’ tenuous alliance.

“The weak-kneed Nancy-boy got cold feet when it came time to actually, you know… _do it._ ”

“Do what?” Ginny asked.

“Draco and Lilian were going to kill all of Professor Hagrid’s flobberworms,” Hermione explained. Mary had been keeping her updated on the situation.

“Why’d you give it up?” Pansy sniggered.

“I’m not a Nancy-boy! _I_ did _my_ part,” Draco defended himself. “I just think Moon here ought to have to carry her own weight!”

“Oh, really? Who came up with the plan in the first place? Who researched how to get rid of the bloody things, and how to transfigure the ragweed into lettuce? Huh? You said you would finish the job!”

“I paid for the ragweed and got it delivered, didn’t I?”

“Wait – if we get rid of the damn flobberworms, will you two stop talking about them while we’re all trying to eat dinner?” Millie asked, with a contemplative expression.

“Yes,” both Draco and Lilian answered firmly.

Hermione, Ginny, and Mary sniggered, as Pansy and Millie shared a speculative look at Lilian and Draco.

“Why don’t you make Potter’s mu- _muggleborn_ do it?” Pansy asked Lilian. Mary glared at her for her quickly-corrected language.

Lilian hummed speculatively. Mary shifted her glare. “Dave Rhees is his own person. If you want his help, ask him for it.”

“Call on the Dark,” Millie said suddenly, nodding behind them. Dave and Alex were making their way through the trees, followed by Blaise, Daphne, and Theo.

They exchanged cordial greetings, and then Daphne asked, “Do any of you know who’s running this show?” The prefects had only put the word around of where the ritual would be held, not who would be the master of ceremonies.

There was a ragged chorus of denials before a pulse of magic swept through the room. A hush followed it, though the excitement in the air increased dramatically, as a pair of voices whispered in concert: “We are Flora and Hestia Carrow, and we will be your mistresses of ceremony for this year’s Mabon celebration. Today we will call on the Wise Power in an adaptation of the Rock in the River.”

One of the voices dropped out as the other continued. “Each of you must choose a partner, in whose eyes you will see reflected a moment, not known to you, that has affected the course of your life, the Rock that has diverted the course of your life’s stream.”

The whisper shifted slightly. One of the twins had a slightly rougher voice than the other. “You will see your partner’s Rock as well as your own. Do you keep their secret, they must keep yours. Should you break this covenant, the Power will take from you all you have learned since the bond was formed.”

“Choose your partners now,” the Carrow twins ordered together, but ever-so-slightly out of sync, producing an eerie echo around the wood. “Or leave this gathering, for those who cannot or will not abide, or fear what they might see, are not welcome here.”

Lilian had grabbed Mary’s hand as soon as the Carrows had mentioned the need for a partner the first time. Alex and Dave were likewise already paired up, and Blaise and Daphne. Millie caught Pansy’s eye, who nodded, leaving Draco with Theo, Hermione, or Ginny. None of them looked pleased with the available options, but apparently Ginny was the least unappealing. Hermione was eyeing the redhead speculatively when Draco raised an eyebrow at her and said, “Weasley?”

Her eyes narrowed, but she stepped closer to him. Hermione sighed.

“Guess that leaves you and me, Granger,” Theo said. Hermione nodded, slightly reluctantly. Mary smirked. She didn’t think Theo and Hermione had ever really spoken before. The six pairs formed a rough circle between the trees, waiting for further instructions. A few younger Slytherins wandered through in different directions, looking for partners, and after a few minutes the Carrows’ voices returned.

“Hold hands with your partner, and gaze deeply into their eyes.”

Mary did. Lilian’s eyes were hazel, a ring of greenish-greyish brown surrounding a brighter, amber shade, and at the moment, far too intense. Her hands grasped Mary’s tightly – she could feel the taller girl’s excitement humming through her body, eager to learn a secret. Mary was excited too, and a little scared. The Chamber of Secrets was fresh in her mind after receiving the Parsel book, and she wondered if the Deceptive Power might reveal the memories she had lost down there.

“ _We call upon the Wise Power, the Deceptive Power, on the day of Turning Darkward.”_

Magic whispered through the air, growing stronger as the voices continued, no longer simply speaking in their ears, but coming from all around them.

_“We honor the Power on this, its day, and beg a boon in celebration.”_

_“As we stand at the edge of the valley of the year,”_

_“As the world turns, and with it, our fates,”_

_“We would know how our lives have been shaped,”_

_“By forces unknown to us.”_

She tried to look away from Lilian’s eyes, and found she couldn’t. It had begun, then. The darkness at the center of the hazel rings was drawing her in, ever deeper.

_“We would grow in experience,”_

_“And in wisdom.”_

The magic in the air was calling to Mary’s magic. She could feel the power dancing in her very veins.

_“We risk betrayal, risk deception.”_

_“We ask clarity, ask understanding.”_

It was sweet, that magic, like a siren’s song, or the smell of crisp leaves, or the feel of a friend’s hand on her shoulder. She wanted, more than anything, to do as it bid.

_“We offer ourselves to the Power and to each other.”_

_“We offer trust, we offer weakness.”_

She felt her own magic rise up, without knowing what it was doing or why – and in the next moment, she found she didn’t care.

_“Show us the secrets that make us who we are.”_

This last was spoken by both voices, eerily together and not together again. Mary watched, somehow distantly, as Lilian’s eyes misted over, felt it as the mist closed behind her focus like a fist, locking her in. The world grew dark, vanished, and then re-formed.

There was no sound.

_Mary watched as two children, perhaps seven or eight years old, argued over a broom. Two girls, she realized after a moment – one with brassy, blonde hair, the other a sun-streaked brunette. Lilian and Aerin. Their magic was flaring as they shoved at each other, each trying to wrest the broom from her sister’s grip. Neither noticed the tow-headed five-year-old boy running to join them, followed at a distance by an older boy in what had to be new Hogwarts robes. He had a camera around his neck, and was practicing basic spells, trying to levitate twigs and rocks as he walked. A young Prefect Moon._

_He looked up, briefly, at the girls, and his mouth moved, as though he was shouting something, but all three of the younger children ignored him._

_In that moment, there was a flash of light, as both girls’ magic flared at once, pushing each of them back, and throwing their little brother to the ground. They stumbled and fell, too, their attention still on each other, rather than the younger child._

If Mary had had a body, she would have gasped as she realized what was happening. If she had had eyes, she would have looked away in horror.

_Sean came running, his face a mask of screaming, as Ministry workers appeared with silent apparitions._ An Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, like the one she and Hermione had met over the summer, Mary realized. _The girls sat up, confused and stunned by the backlash of their accidental magic. Lilian gloated for half a second over her custody of the broom, until she realized that her little brother had fallen as well. Triumph ran into confusion, then terror, and horror as the little boy didn’t move. She dropped the broom as both girls ran to join their older brother, who was already crying and shaking the boy, his hands red with blood from where the child had struck his head on landing._

_The ministry wizards and witches tried to pull the three children away from what Mary knew already was just a body, but they clung to him. Their mother arrived and collapsed to the ground beside them, grief-stricken and clearly in shock. She did not resist when a newly-arrived wizard in auror-red flashed a badge at her and led her a short distance away._

_Mary watched in equally silent horror as the ministry wizards cast spell after spell at the children and conferred amongst themselves, as a Healer from St. Mungo’s came to check on the boy and pronounced him dead – she could tell because that was the moment when Mrs. Moon broke, dissolving into a flood of tears. She pushed her daughters away, and Sean, already the young man who would one day be a Slytherin prefect, pulled them aside, glaring and shouting at his mother._

_Mr. Moon arrived then, with another auror, clearly already informed as to what had happened. He gathered his wife into his arms, and Mary tried to read his lips as he spoke to some non-auror official. She failed, miserably. The official nodded eventually, and pulled the girls aside, one at a time, casting some sort of spell on them, after which the guilt on their faces lessened, though sorrow remained. He called Sean over last, and when the boy resisted, at a small shake of his father’s head, the ministry man let him go._

_He took a shuddering breath and wrapped an arm around each of the girls, leading them back to the house as their parents cried over the now-shrouded body of their youngest son._

The memory? Moment? Lasted only half a second longer, a wizard’s photo of a family tragedy, with one child dead, two others accidental murderers, rejected by their parents, and the last siding with his sisters, before the non-space filled with mist. Mary, horrified, wished she had eyes to cry with, or arms to pull her friend close. But she didn’t: she was still trapped behind Lilian’s eyes, only halfway through this ritual.

The mist cleared, and the world had changed. It was not the Chamber of Secrets. It was, in fact, a rather cozy living room. It reminded her of Professor McGonagall’s private parlor, broken-in and well-loved.

_A man with long, wavy, black hair and a sharp goatee knelt before a red-haired, green-eyed woman._ Sirius Black, Mary realized after a moment, and her mother, Lily Evans – Potter, by then? Probably, she decided. _A second man with messy black hair and large, round glasses was watching the tableau, along with a nervous-looking man with a rather pointed, rodent-like face._ Her father, and Peter Pettigrew. She recognized her parents from the very first wizard’s photo she had ever been given, and Black and Pettigrew from the papers. Their faces had been ubiquitous over the past two months, though the murderer didn’t look so much like his mug shot, here.

_Lily, no older than Catherine, was casting some sort of spell on Black. The wandwork was like no charm or curse Mary had ever seen, twitching and jumping like Dan Granger’s pencil as he pretended to conduct the orchestra behind his classical records. A misty glow, swirling with reds and blues so deep they were almost black rose off of the kneeling man, coalescing a few feet from his body. He froze, staring dead-eyed in front of himself. Darkness rose to the surface of the misty ball, floating off it and vanishing, before she directed the ball back to Black’s body with long, slow wand movements._

_The man gasped, suddenly, and, no longer frozen in his penitent’s pose, fell to his hands and knees before opening his eyes and sitting back again. He looked around briefly with an expression of wonder before fixing his eyes on James. Lily smiled softly as her husband pulled the traitor to his feet and hugged him tightly._

_Then Pettigrew said something, and the others all looked at him. He exchanged a few words with Black before nodding determinedly. Lily laughed, obviously explaining something. James and Black nodded with expressions of varying grimness. Black asked something, and Lily answered with another nod._ Mary felt like screaming for the lack of sound. _They and James exchanged a few more words, and then everyone followed Lily out of the room, down a flight of stairs into what might kindly be called an unfinished basement._ Mary’s perception shifted with them.

_The new room was lit only by the flickering candles in the hands of the four young adults. Pettigrew looked absolutely terrified as the other three formed a triangle around him. Black cast several spells, beams of light drawn between her parents and himself at head and heart._ Mary burned with fury to think that someone so close to her parents could have betrayed them. _Their mouths moved as one, and Lily traced an intricate pattern with her wand, again and again, trailing silver light to form a net of some sort, or perhaps a cage, drawing darkness in and holding it close._

_Then, suddenly, the cage, a ball of filigree light, surrounding an orb of tight-pressed darkness, flashed, becoming an opaque, glowing ball, which moved slowly toward Pettigrew’s heart, sinking into him. His eyes glowed briefly white as his friends (and the traitor) chanted around him. Then it was, apparently, over. The wizard’s eyes stopped glowing, and the bonds between the three spell-casters faded. Lily said something – Mary had no idea what – and Pettigrew answered, before the white mist obscured the vision again, completely._

She came back to herself gasping, not unlike Black in the first half of the second vision, incredibly frustrated by the fact that she had _no idea_ what she had seen. She was still clinging to Lilian’s hands, and there were tears running freely down the other girl’s cheeks. At the sight of her friend’s grief, Mary realized how incredibly selfish she was being. Whatever the vision had meant, it was – had to be – nothing, compared to knowing that you were in some way responsible for your brother’s death. She pulled the taller girl close, and whispered _it’s okay_ , over and over as hot tears soaked her collar.

The others around them did not seem to be much better off. Draco and Ginny had let go of each other’s hands, and were looking at each other with a sort of wary guardedness, as though each was waiting for the other to strike first. Hermione and Theo were holding hands tightly, as though frozen, and shooting nervous glances at each other and the rest of them. Alex and Dave could not meet each other’s gaze. Each boy had his arms wrapped tightly around himself, and Mary saw tears at the corner of Alex’s eyes. Pansy and Millie had sat down, leaning against each other, but not looking at each other. Blaise was wrapped around Daphne like a cloak, with a look of rage threatening anyone who might say a word against his indecorous behavior. She patted his arm around her neck with one hand, and stroked his hair with the other, her face absolutely blank, as though she was still lost to whatever she had seen.

The magic was gone, or at least no longer calling to Mary like sweetness and light.

“ _We offer our thanks to the Power,”_ the rough-voiced Carrow twin whispered, her voice coming as though from the trees themselves.

_“We take from this gathering the knowledge offered,”_

_“We leave having gained experience, with new perspectives.”_

_“Reflect this day, on the ways in which experience shapes us all,”_

_“And the ways in which we are changed for having knowledge now that we didn’t have before.”_

_“May the Power walk beside you as you grow and change,”_

_“As you age and shape yourselves, and are shaped by the world and the people around you.”_

_“Remember, the bond is forged,”_

_“Keep the secrets that are not yours to share,”_

_“And go with grace, as the world turns to darkness.”_

_“Blessings of the dark!”_

Mary muttered the now familiar refrain for both Lilian and herself. As she helped the older girl make her way out of the maple grove to find her brother – all she would say was, “I need to talk to Sean,” – she couldn’t help but feel that it had been a most appropriate ritual for the Deceptive Power: she felt bitter and hurt, as though she had been cheated, and didn’t exactly know how.

_New lesson_ , she reflected grimly. _Magic is amazing and wondrous and fantastic, but it is also horrible and cruel and heartless._

She felt _old_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The vision Mary saw is a soundless, context free version of the story depicted in 'Changing of the Guardian.' If you're curious about exactly what happened back in 1981, you can find it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7174364/chapters/16285340


	14. In the Aftermath of Mabon

###  Friday, 24 September 1993

#### Severus Snape’s Office

##### Hermione

Hermione gave her potion one last counterclockwise stir and killed the flame beneath the cauldron before turning to her reference text. She was fairly certain that she had done everything correctly, but it never hurt to double-check the final stage against the appendix to make sure it was _exactly_ the right color. Before she could open the book to the correct table, a silky voice whispered in her ear: “See me after class, Miss Granger.”

She startled fiercely as the professor swept away, then frowned at herself. She really ought to be used to Snape’s habit of sneaking up on people by this point, but somehow she never expected it. It wasn’t fair. No one so much taller than her should be able to move around so unnoticeably.

“Yes, sir,” she said after a moment, refusing to look up from her potions manual. Whatever could he want to see her for after class? She hadn’t done anything lately! And how would this affect her schedule? Bother. She was beginning to think that time travel might be more trouble than it was worth, even if she did have a marvelous amount of free time now.

Several minutes later, the class was dismissed. Hermione lingered, waving for Padma and Morag to go on without her. They had been keeping close since the big fight with Elizabeth and Lilian, and even closer since she had come back from the Mabon ritual so subdued. She sighed, regretting that her thoughts were already back on this familiar track, not five minutes after the need to concentrate fully on her potion had passed.

She was certain that she had seen one of the worst possible things she could imagine: Her mother, finding out she was pregnant, and immediately looking up abortion clinics. Her father had come home and talked her out of it – that had to be what he had been saying, because obviously she hadn’t gone through with it – but it was still gut-wrenching, almost literally, to realize that she had been unwanted. She still hadn’t decided whether to write her mother about it, or talked to anyone else. This wasn’t the first time a holiday ritual had severely unsettled her, but this time, Elizabeth and Lilian were so wrapped up in Lilian’s vision – realizing that she and Aerin had been responsible for their brother Connor’s death – that they hadn’t realized that Hermione was hurting, too.

Hermione didn’t blame them, really, for focusing on Lilian. Even she had enough tact not to bring up something that obviously hadn’t happened in the face of something so awful that _had._ She just didn’t know what to do, for Lilian _or_ herself. She had thrown herself into working fifty-plus hours a day since then, trying to distance herself, both from Lilian’s situation and her own vision, but it was hard.

She swallowed the urge to go find a nice quiet place to feel sorry for herself as she finished packing up her books and supplies, focusing on the here and now.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” she asked politely.

“Not here. My office. Come.” The potions master, billowing and mysterious as ever, led the way out of the classroom and down the hall.

When they were seated – Hermione in one of the uncomfortable student chairs, and Snape behind the massive desk, already covered in stacks of paperwork – he pinned her in place with a pointed gaze and said, “Hand over the time turner.”

Hermione was certain her eyes grew large, but she did her best to pretend she had no idea what he was talking about. “Sir? Time turner?”

“Don’t play stupid, Miss Granger. It doesn’t suit you.”

She sighed and handed over the little hourglass on its golden chain.

Much to her surprise, Snape pulled out his wand and pointed it at the artefact. “ _Chronarios_ ,” he said calmly. A string of glowing red numbers appeared: 1.42; 2.96; 2.54; 1.21; 1.16; 1.21

The professor smirked. “Have you any idea of the meaning of these numbers, Miss Granger?”

“No, sir.”

“They signify the Kairos to Cronos ratio. The amount of time that this device experiences as compared to each full, 24-hour day, beginning at midnight.” He raised an eyebrow in her direction and she hunched in her chair as he said, “I see you lasted not even a month before you caved to the temptation to use this little bobble to its full potential. Sinistra will be so disappointed. She bet that you would make it to at least Samhain. You’ve just lost her five galleons,” he explained lightly, before casting a series of what had to be some kind of diagnostic charms on the time turner and its chain.

Hermione sat quietly, wondering what the bloody hell was going on, as diagrams of whirling lights appeared and complex arithmantic formulas scrawled themselves in the air. Snape copied several of these into a notebook before casting even more spells. “Interesting…” he muttered to himself.

“Sorry, sir,” she finally asked, unable to stand it any longer, “but what’s interesting?”

“They’ve fixed the maximum duplications to three, and limited the intervals to the hour, but they’ve managed to orphan the array limiting forward travel while they were trying to fix the extended momentum issue,” he answered idly, still scribbling.

If Hermione had not already been curious, that would have done it. “You, erm, know a lot about time turners, sir?”

He gave a snort which, from anyone else, she might have considered almost a laugh. “You could say that.”

He frowned at the little hourglass, suspended in its golden rings, for a brief moment, and then pulled what looked like a stylus of some sort and a freestanding magnifying glass from a drawer. He looked at the time turner again, checked a reference book, and scribbled a few more lines. Finally he set the stylus against the glass, but before he could do whatever he was planning to do, Hermione interrupted.

“What are you doing? I have to give that back at the end of the year!” she snapped, her concern for the time-travelling necklace overwhelming her fear of Professor Snape. “Um. Sir,” she added belatedly.

He lifted the stylus carefully and sneered at her. “1981, fifth-year Slytherin Martin Fitzhowe flipped his hourglass forward instead of back. He lost one hour, and condensed the time-stream, displacing seventy-three versions of himself from alternate timelines which failed to develop in his absence into our own. 1982, third-year Ravenclaw Adelaide Pendergast, tripped on the main staircase, shattered her time turner, and cut herself, allowing the Sand into her bloodstream. Her blood – all of it – was transported three heartbeats into the past, causing the fall in the first place. 1984, sixth-year Ravenclaw Peter Charleston went back every ten minutes for eight hours, because he was bored and wanted to see if he could. He created an inconsistency. The mental strain on reversion to normalcy nearly killed him, and took three years to fully reverse. 1986, seventh-year Ravenclaw Tobias Smythe attempted to replicate a time turner. The magical backlash nearly leveled the Arithmancy tower. 1991, fifth-year Gryffindor Percy Weasley had his time turner stolen by the simple and effective method of _summoning_ it strongly enough to break the chain. I had to deal with _four_ Weasley twins for an entire day. Just last year, Amelia Arrowgate, fourth-year Ravenclaw, flipped hers back four-hundred and fifty-six times the first day she had it, and crash-landed in the middle of _July_ in the Great Hall.

“Quite aside from the secrecy issue, there are plenty of reasons not to allow students to muck about with time travel. I will not have you accidentally filling the castle with dozens of yourself due to some inane confluence of poor arithmancy on the part of whatever moron Kister has in charge of enchanting these damned things and a slip of the finger on the part of your obnoxiously overachieving self.” He flicked the notebook across the desk at her. “The first formula is a ward to physically prevent the hourglass from spinning in the forward direction, to counteract the incompetency of ministry enchanters. The second will alert me at once if you so much as cast an inquiry charm on this thing, because I will NOT have you and those Weasley menaces pulling a Smythe, or worse. The last is an anti-summoning ward.” He snatched the book back and began inscribing tiny, precise symbols on the glass and the gold of the artefact. “If I had been consulted, I would never have approved your having this at all, given the complete disregard for the rules you demonstrated last year, but I most unfortunately was not. Equally unfortunately, I am not authorized to interfere in the Department of Mysteries Mentee program by confiscating the device from those I deem unsuitable, despite the fact that I, and not any of Kister’s bloody Unspeakables, will undoubtedly be called upon to reverse or mitigate whatever horrors you manage to inflict upon the castle this year. These precautions are merely intended to limit the range of possible disasters by eliminating any which have _already_ occurred from possibly occurring _again_.”

Hermione briefly considered trying to defend herself, but decided that there was no point. She likely _would_ have fallen to the temptation to try to figure out how the thing worked over the course of the school year, especially now that she was already convinced to break the rules, and had as many hours of free time as she wanted. Snape would know she was lying if she tried to say that she would never have done such a thing. And she _was_ grateful that he had caught the forward-turning issue. Unspeakable Santiago and Professor McGonagall had assured her that turning the dial forward would do nothing at all, and she hadn’t intended to test that claim, but she could easily imagine an accident, and shuddered to think of all the timelines she might have inadvertently destroyed. She had a better question, anyway.

“Why would you have to fix things and not Unspeakable Santiago or one of the others from the Time Room?”

He briefly stopped his work and looked up as he responded. “In the event that it has escaped your notice over the course of the past two years’ adventures, I am routinely assigned to deal with resolving the most esoteric problems which occur in this castle, from exorcising the Dark Lord’s shade to tracking down missing children and Defense instructors, analyzing dark objects, and reversing unauthorized memory modifications. I doubtless would have been called upon to slay the basilisk as well, had those infuriating idiots not gotten there first.”

“Well, yes, I had rather noticed that… but… why?”

Snape sighed, and returned to his runework. “Partly, I suspect, because the universe, and specifically our illustrious Headmaster are punishing me for the mistakes of my youth. Partly because I do have more experience with the more obscure arts than anyone else at this school, which more often than not makes me the most appropriate person for the job.” Hermione thought he might have smiled slightly as he spoke. “For example, how much do you know about the history of time travel research?”

“Oh!” She had read up on it the first week back to school, in fact. “Time turners were developed in the 1970s. A wizard called Norbert McPherson came up with the first one in 1978. He said –”

“He said he traveled back from the future, taught himself how to make a time turner, and then looped around again,” Snape cut her off. “Rubbish. Absolute tripe. Less factual than Gilderoy Lockhart’s most recent autobiography.”

He was definitely smiling, and that was decidedly odd. Snape didn’t _smile_. “But…”

“The Sand of Time was invented in 1954 by a mad old German alchemist called Waldheim von Helmsthal. He was trying, like all alchemists, to invent a Philosopher’s Stone, and thought the key was in negating aging entirely. He met the Dark Lord sometime in the early 1960s, and joined him back when the Death Eaters were still the Knights of Walpurgis. The Sandstone Project was eventually declared a failure and he worked on other things until 1968 or ’69, when Bella Black re-discovered his notes on the Sand and started fiddling around with the cross-planar arithmantic implications. She did the arithmancy, the Dark Lord did the enchanting, and they managed to make the first working prototype in 1971, just as the War was kicking off. They didn’t manage to move a target or anything other than the hourglass itself for years. Liam Rosier, who was a transfiguration prodigy, is credited with managing to link the field to a target in ’77. They moved onto human trials just before I joined the Death Eaters in ’78. Development progress was more or less halted following Mabon of that year. McPherson stole a working prototype early in ’79 and defected, thinking that he could trade it for amnesty. The Unspeakables were amenable, but Bellatrix managed to track him down and kill him within months, despite their protections.”

Hermione realized her mouth was hanging open. She shut it, teeth clicking together audibly. Snape looked up from his engraving again. “You’re telling me _Death Eaters_ made the first time turner? That You Know Who was one of the first time travelers?”

“No need to sound so surprised. The ratio of confirmed geniuses has always been weighted on the side of the Dark. And there have been time travelers since the concept of time was formalized. Fewer dilettantes, of course, but there have always been those with a knack for falling out of time.”

“But all the books say -”

“You mustn’t trust everything you read, Miss Granger,” the professor said sharply, turning back to his enchanting. “Some things are written by madmen. Some are meant to mislead. And, of course, the books _you’ve_ read are approved by the Ministry, and with those, oftentimes it is both.”

Hermione had never been so insulted. If _nothing_ else, she considered herself well-read. “Well what _should_ I be reading, then?” she snapped without thinking.

Snape looked up again, fixing her with a terrifyingly evaluating look before turning to his bookshelves. He selected a slim volume, bound in unmarked black leather, and slid it across the desk. “The record of all the time travel accidents I have been called upon to reverse or ameliorate since 1981. You may find it illuminating.”

Hermione reached toward the book tentatively. _His_ record? She could barely believe he would allow her to see even excerpts from his personal journals. He couldn’t be serious. “May I?” she squeaked.

“You may. In detention this evening. Three hours, beginning at seven. Though I will not object if you prefer to serve them simultaneously,” he added, with an expressive eye-roll. “I do have better things to do than supervise you for three of _my_ hours.”

“I, erm, that is… I thought I wasn’t to interact with my former selves.”

The professor waved a dismissive hand. “It’s perfectly safe so long as you don’t try to change what you remember happening. Staying away from your former selves is intended more to prevent suspicion on the part of observers than to prevent a collapsed loop, and even then, with only two potential duplications in play, the worst that is likely to happen is an inexplicable three-day migraine.

Hermione was certain her face was burning. She had intentionally caused a paradox the first day she had the time turner, just to see what would happen. Migraine might have been an understatement, but he was right, nothing truly bad had happened. _That could make things so much easier._ “Yes, sir,” she said aloud.

“Very well, then,” he said, moving back around the desk, and handing the chain back to her. “Two turns, if you please.”

“Erm… what?” Silently, Hermione cursed herself. She was certain she never sounded so inarticulate around other professors.

“Much as I despise these contraptions, I did have a full schedule today even before I spent an hour child-proofing this bloody inconvenience, so, _if you would_ , two turns, Miss Granger.”

“Ah, yes, sir.” She stood and moved away from the chair, just in case it had been moved some time in the last two hours, and turned the hourglass back twice.

There was the already-familiar sensation of flying backwards, very quickly, the world blurring around them as Professor Snape clung to the chain around her neck, his face fixed in a stoic expression, which quickly gave way to nausea as the room re-solidified around them.

“Every time I say never again,” the man grumbled, “and every time, I find I’ve lied to myself. _Tempus._ ”

The proper time, halfway through Potions class, appeared in glowing red numbers, suspended in the air, and he re-set his watch.

“What on Earth are you still doing here, Miss Granger?”

Hermione gave an involuntary _eep_ , having been caught watching Professor Snape experiencing a rare moment of humanity, and followed it up with, “Nothing sir. See you at seven,” before running (mostly figuratively) for the corridor.

Had she thought of it, she would have been grateful _not_ to have been thinking about her mother, but she was, for the first time since the ritual, blissfully distracted, considering what else the Death Eaters must have come up with, and wondering if Professor Snape had access to any of their research notes, and whether she dared ask him.

###  Saturday, 25 September 1993

#### Hogwarts’ Library, Restricted Section

##### Severus

Occasionally, Severus Snape had second, fifth, or even seventh-year students tell him that, when they grew up, they would like to be a Hogwarts Professor. They invariably saw the attractive summers off, the benefits of food and lodging included, and the advantages of having access to both the best library in Magical Britain and eager young minds, practically begging to be molded in one’s own image.

What they didn’t see, _ever_ , was the fact that only the least-burdened professors worked a mere forty hours per week. The elective professors, in fact, taught only twenty-four hours, but updating lesson plans, marking, supervising student organizations, Hogsmeade weekends, and the occasional remedial lesson, attending staff meetings and Quidditch matches, patrolling the corridors evenings and weekends, and supervising the occasional detention easily made up the other sixteen hours.

The core subject professors had thirty-six hours of teaching, plus all their other duties, and the Heads of House were _supposed_ to meet with their new students regularly over their first term, in addition to second, fifth, and seventh-years in the spring for career counselling, and the year-round duties of training prefects and holding office hours. Severus himself went above and beyond in giving his third-years an extra weekly lesson in survival skills, but he was hardly the only one to have additional, self-inflicted duties. Filius supervised the Charms Club, and Pomona the Herbology Club. Minerva had fobbed the Transfiguration Club off onto Septima, but that was only fair, seeing as she also covered more than half of Dumbledore’s administrative duties, as well as the Deputy Head position. No student had yet dared ask Severus to supervise a Potions Club, and he meant to keep it that way.

The last time he had tried counting up all the hours he spent on his official duties, it had hovered around seventy-five, and that was _before_ including the irregular commitments, like spying on Quirrellmort, hunting for the Monster of Slytherin, brewing Wolfsbane for one of his least-favorite werewolves (which was saying rather a lot, given that he had met most of Greyback’s pack), maintaining the more advanced stores for the Hospital Wing, and generally cleaning up whatever other messes Dumbledore didn’t want to deal with.

It was also before the last two incoming classes had arrived, each larger than the last. Accidents were up, even with his stricter-than-usual insistence on seriousness in the Potions Labs, and marking for the first and second-years was taking four times as long as it had done three years before. And of course both Minerva and Dumbledore were too busy to address his demands to hire additional core staff to address the post-war baby-boom. They needed at _least_ two professors for each of the core subjects.

He had to be mad to have assigned the Veritaserum Conspiracy a hundred hours of _unofficial_ detentions, Severus thought, dragging himself out of bed at the crack of noon on the only day of the week that he got more than four hours of sleep. It was true that there were no questions, this way, about exactly what they had done, and no oversight of the punishments he assigned, but if he had made them _official_ hours, he could have thrown them in Filch’s lap, or Babbling’s – _she_ was _excellent_ at supervising lines. But he was absolutely certain that no one else would drum the lesson he was trying to teach into those particular children’s thick skulls, and he was bound and determined _not_ to graduate a pack of Hogwarts-educated future felons in three to five years’ time.

And in any case, there was no backing out now. After Suggestivity Solution, Legal Copying, and Puppy Dissections, they were already a quarter of the way done. Today would make it a third. He was planning to send them to the library to research alternative truth serums and charms they could have used instead of Veritaserum, and have them write an essay on the topic.

If there was one thing he had learned from the Death Eaters, it was that a person could get used to anything. The pain of two minutes’ Cruciatus was no different than ten seconds’ (though the curse did have worse and longer-lasting side-effects the longer it was held). If the students were actually to learn from the experience of their detentions, they could not be allowed to become complacent, thoughtlessly performing the motions of the detention, whether it was scrubbing cauldrons, shelling beetles, or copying lines. For lessons be truly effective, the students must be _engaged._ Thus: one detention bordering on cruelty; followed by one where they were bored to tears; one where they honed their technical skills and drove home that they were _not_ experts in his field, since part of their trespass was brewing unsupervised; followed by one where they explicitly learned a lesson about why their actions were ethically unacceptable. He could only hope that three months of this treatment would be sufficient.

Other benefits of giving the students a written task every other week included that he could use the time for his own marking, as well. He would have to read their essays, but without correcting them to hand back, he figured he would still come out about six hours ahead, compared to a week where he had to supervise them closely the whole time. And this particular task would irritate Irma, which was always amusing. Some days he wasn’t sure which of them the students were more frightened of.

After lunch, he informed the librarian that his remedial potions class required access to the restricted section, and herded the children through the mostly-empty stacks. It was, still, only September. The library would not become a popular destination for most students until at least Easter. He informed his detainees of their task, settled in at his favorite library desk (invisible to anyone outside of the restricted section, and conveniently far from a floo, through which Dumbledore might summon him with some horrible new assignment) with a freshly sharpened quill and a bottle of red ink, cast a supersensory charm on himself so he would hear any whispers not related to the task at hand, and proceeded to appear to ignore the students until such time as he caught the reprehensible Weasleys or the insufferable Granger straying to look at more interesting tomes.

Four hours, eight reprimands, and all of the fifth and seventh-year essays later, he was interrupted by a House Elf, delivering a note from Filius.

_Dear Severus,_  
I realize that this is inconveniently short notice, but it appears I shall require your assistance after all in addressing the Lovegood issue. Tea will be served at the Rookery tomorrow at four. Please do come, a Potions Master’s expert opinion is always invaluable in this sort of meeting.  
Filius

Severus sighed. So much for being six hours ahead at the end of this weekend.

#### Severus Snape’s Office

##### Mary

Slytherin House as a whole had become a curious stew of subdued introspection and anxious edginess in the wake of the Mabon ceremony. While the atmosphere led Mary, like most of her housemates, to be rather tense, she also found that their preoccupation with the secrets that had been revealed to them meant they were less interested in Dave. Consequently there had been no more confrontations about her sponsoring the first Slytherin muggleborn since the 1930s.

Instead, she had been helplessly fluttering around the edges of the Moon Family Drama, as Lilian first raged at her brother for never telling her what had happened to Connor, and then endlessly debated whether she ought to tell Aerin, whose vision had been one of their parents arguing over whether the girls should be allowed to work with the dogs. Sean said no – that there was a reason he had kept the secret all these years. The girls had been seven and eight, it was an accident, they didn’t need to carry the weight of guilt when it was his fault and their mother’s as much as anyone’s: they should have been watching more closely. Lilian clearly still felt guilty about it, and about keeping it from Aerin, but she didn’t want her sister, whom she had always looked out for (despite the fact that Aerin was older) to suffer through the pain and guilt _she_ was going through.

The only good thing, she said, with caustic, black humor, was that she was now certain Sean would _never_ reject her, given his reaction all those years ago, and how he had protected her since.

Mary thought she was with Sean on this one. Aerin didn’t need to know – obviously their parents had thought so, or they would never have allowed the girls to be obliviated in the first place. But there was nothing she could do to ease Lilian’s pain, other than offer a shoulder to cry on and a listening ear, and try to keep her distracted. She had hardly seen Hermione at all, which was a shame, because she would have liked to talk to someone about her own vision and what it might mean, and the mysterious and disturbing book she had been sent, but she couldn’t justify abandoning Lilian in what was obviously a time of need.

She felt bad enough leaving her in the Common Room after their detention – this one a pain in her writing hand, but thankfully less awful than the previous. She had even found out why they hadn’t used that cool Venetian Truth Charm the prefects had used in her little mock-trial: it could be fooled by fairly low-level Occlumency skills, and was NEWT-standard difficulty to cast. It was impressive that Chess had managed to master it so early into his fifth year. None of their Conspiracy Cabal would have been able to manage it, and those who knew of truth charms had had every reason to suspect that the Heir of Slytherin would be able to resist it. Still, she needed to talk to Snape in private, and this _was_ his official Office Hour.

Snape’s door was, as usual, mostly closed, so as to discourage casual visitors, but not latched. She knocked tentatively, and then again, more firmly.

“Enter,” Snape called.

Mary did so, closing the door fully behind her.

“Mary Elizabeth?” he looked up from the scroll he was reading, obviously surprised to see her after just having let her out of an eight-hour detention.

“Good evening, sir,” she said politely, and took a seat, uninvited.

The Potions Master fixed a put-upon look in place. “What is it?”

The girl placed the mysterious book gingerly on the desk, and slid it toward him. “Someone sent this to me on Mabon, from the Americas via France, according to the post-marks.”

Snape flipped idly through the first few pages, raising an eyebrow at the title and author. “So your fame has spread across the pond?”

“I hope not,” she said seriously. “I just – look at the notes, at the back.” When she had finally gotten around to reading the rest of the packet of English notes, she had at first been struck by how very helpful they seemed. It was not until she began reading through them a second time that she realized they seemed to have been written specifically for _her_ , and moreover, that they were phrased specifically as advice from one Speaker to another.

Snape caught on much more quickly, his expression growing darker as he skimmed what equated to a twenty-page letter from, she suspected, the only other English-speaking Parselmouth she knew of. After perhaps five minutes, he closed his eyes, set the papers down on top of the book, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I think I understand why you have brought this problem to me,” he said, after another long moment. “And I must unfortunately confirm your suspicions. It does seem more likely that this so-called gift originated with the _other_ heir of Slytherin than, for example, one of the Najari in India or one of the Native American Snake-Speakers.”

“But it _could_ be someone else?” she asked hopefully.

The wizard shook his head impatiently. “Look at the dedication: To the First Daughter of the House of Slytherin, on the occasion of her thirteenth birthday. This is, indubitably, a gift from one who considers himself the Acting Head of a House to his Heir.” Mary wilted. “On the positive side, this does suggest that it was sent by the younger reincarnation of Tom Riddle rather than some pawn of Voldemort’s shade. We have no reason to suspect that the latter knows of your familial connection, though with a sample of your blood, it appears the former has confirmed it.”

Mary rubbed the scar on her wrist self-consciously. “So what do you think it means?”

Snape _hmm_ ’d, and cast a series of brightly-colored charms at the book and the notes before laying his hands upon them gently. A whisper of power, cold and tingling, brushed through the office, though only for a moment. “Perhaps nothing. There is no hint of magic here, dark or otherwise, aside from the preservation enchantments on the book, let alone anything malicious.”

“So… it’s just a present, then? Harmless?”

“It appears so, yes. Parchment, leather, ink, knowledge. No curses or port-keys to unknown locations, and you may rest assured that unlike the diary, this book has never been used as a horcrux.”

“But why would _he_ send me a gift?” the thirteen-year-old nearly wailed in frustration.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Because he recognizes the potential power you hold and wishes to gain your favor and alliance? Because he always aspired to be a lord among wizards? He has implied here that he is the Head of Slytherin’s line, a lofty claim indeed, which alliance with you might support. Perhaps even because he was an orphan, and you are, in some tenuous way, the only thing like family he has ever had? Do you not recall in the Chamber? He told you he _quite liked_ the theory that you were his granddaughter. The Dark Lord I knew intended to live forever, but a powerful legacy is nothing to sneer at.”

Mary took a deep breath, and found that she was biting her lip nervously. “So we think it’s a good-faith gesture. What do I do?”

The wizard on the other side of the desk shrugged. “Read the book. Learn from it. Knowledge is power, and you must not spurn any possible advantage. If there was no return address, no note or name, he cannot be expecting thanks. If I were you… yes, I think I should expect further gifts, building a foundation of good rapport before he admits that it was he who sent them – though this is nothing if not a large hint. He is most likely… preparing the ground, so to speak.”

The young witch felt an evil smirk blossom on her face. “So we’re a step ahead, because we know it’s him, and he won’t think we know?”

The Potions Master nodded. “Mind you bring any more such mysterious gifts to me as well – just because the first was not cursed is no reason to suspect future packages will not be.”

“False sense of security,” Mary nodded. That made sense.

“Indeed. And you would be well-served to keep the packaging, next time. It may hold some clue as to a more specific location, should we need to track him down.”

“Why would we want to do that?”

“Have you never heard the phrase, ‘keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’?” Snape asked, probably rhetorically, shaking his head. “Riddle is an unknown quantity, and as such, any information on him would be a boon. Where he has gone to ground may say a good deal about his intentions toward you specifically and the magical world in general.”

The girl nodded, suitably chastened. She clearly still had a lot to learn about this business of having potential enemies lurking in the shadows. She wished she could tell Catherine about it and get her opinion. Perhaps she would, leaving out the Evil, Undead Grandfather angle. The older girl already knew about the kidnapping, after all. And the Grangers might have some insight, too.

“Okay. Thank you, sir,” she said, rising from her seat.

“Of course, Mary Elizabeth,” the professor answered. He watched, silently, as she left, more reassured than she had expected by the meeting.

She hadn’t even considered that the book might be a horcrux or a portkey, or that it might be an attempt to soften her up before a second, more harmful gift arrived, and she was infinitely glad that she had someone on her side who _would_ think of things like that. Even if she didn’t fully trust him, anymore, she did believe that he was every bit as wary of the Dark Lord as she was.

She smiled as she made her way upstairs. She had just enough time left before curfew to check in with the kitchen elves, and make sure that the cake she had requested would be ready for Hermione’s party the following afternoon. If that didn’t cheer everyone up a bit (or at least provide a suitable distraction), she didn’t know what would.

 


	15. When September Ends

###  Sunday, 10 October 1993

#### Remus Lupin’s Office

As September limped through an awkward, edgy, guilt-riddled, and somewhat traumatized end (at least from Mary’s perspective), a much-subdued Slytherin House settled into a new ‘normal.’

Dave Rhees was now fast friends with two outcast half-bloods: fellow first-year Alex Piltdown, from Devon and second-year Nora Blum, from Dusseldorf. Perhaps these were not the best allies he could have hoped for, but he seemed, at least, to appreciate their company. All three of them were understood to be under the protection of Mary Potter, who had finally explicitly claimed the title of Heir of Slytherin. Tales of her long-ago triumph over the Heir of Malfoy, her display of Parseltongue at Lockhart’s Dueling Club, and her three-day disappearance in the Chamber of Secrets were whispered less quietly than they could have been to the first and second-years around the common room, and older eyes watched her somewhat warily. In the wake of Mabon, it seemed that even those who had never seen her speak to a snake were ready for a change of pace, and declined to challenge her over her unofficial Clients.

Lilian Moon, formerly one of the most outspoken third-years, sank into a minor depression, avoiding her so-called best friend, instead spending nearly all of her time with the other third-year girls and, to nearly everyone’s surprise, Draco Malfoy. Sean informed Mary that this was most likely only because Mary was currently reminding Lilian of Connor, and that his baby sister would come around eventually, but this was not in any way consoling. As Hermione was not around any more often than she had been before their intervention, to avoid raising suspicions surrounding her time turner, Mary was left to spend most of her time with her adopted underclassmen, or Theo and Blaise, the latter of whom seemed to be avoiding Daphne and refused to tell anyone why.

Quidditch practices increased in intensity, if not frequency, as the first match approached. Flint dispatched some of the more eager first-years to spy on the other teams and feign ignorance if caught. The returning team members, Mary included, had been ordered to use this intelligence in developing new strategies for each of the year’s match-ups.

Snape’s extra lessons grew increasingly difficult as the third-years struggled to master charms that were (at least officially) OWL standard. Their prefects assured Mary, Blaise, and Theo (when they were caught practicing in the common room) that their efforts were not in vain: even if they didn’t master the spells this year, they would be miles ahead of their peers by fifth.

Outside of Slytherin, the Conspirators’ detentions continued vacillating wildly between excruciatingly uncomfortable and frustratingly tedious: they spent a whole afternoon reading ethics texts and solving ethical dilemmas, the correct answer to the last of which was that Snape _should_ have turned them in, and another afternoon preparing extracts and essences of willowbark, murtlap, and yerbena for the hospital wing – one dose at a time, with Snape periodically vanishing their work halfway through for the most tenuous of reasons. The fifth-years moaned in private about the many, many other ways they could have been spending those hours. Even revising properly for their Potions OWL would be better.

New classes proceeded at a disappointing pace: Runes and arithmancy were both very difficult, for almost completely opposite reasons. Runes had too much memorizing, and trying to understand arithmancy tied Mary’s brain in knots. And Hagrid, according to Draco, who had finally followed through on his promise to exterminate the flobberworms in the face of Lilian’s obvious disinclination to do anything more about the problem, had moved on in Care of Magical Creatures to Acid Slugs. (Draco had taken a leaf out of the Grangers’ book, and organized a petition instead of just talking about it, because that was _just not on_.)

“Are there any good things happening at all?” Remus asked, as Mary recounted the highlights of the past few weeks in Slytherin (leaving out, obviously, the bits about Snape’s extra lessons and the details of the Conspirators’ detentions, the Quidditch spying, and exactly why Lilian was seriously out of sorts – she was going to need to start keeping a diary, soon, if only so she could remind herself of all the things she hadn’t mentioned to him).

“Well, the first Dueling Club meeting went really well.”

At least three-quarters of the school had turned up. Flitwick, like Lockhart, had invited Snape to give an exhibition duel to kick off the club, and it had been well-advertised. Unlike the complete farce that was Lockhart’s attempt at dueling, the two experienced professors had started with the easiest hexes and jinxes spoken aloud, and worked up to a silent lightshow of dodging and shielding over the course of fifteen minutes or so. It had been brilliant to watch: one spell flowing effortlessly into the next on the attack as Flitwick ducked and jumped and tumbled across the stage; Snape, having for once foregone his usual billowing attire, moving so quickly and minimally that he never seemed to put forth any effort at all.

“I heard Filius won,” Remus grinned. “Sorry, _Professor Flitwick_.”

Mary sniggered at the slip of his tongue. “You didn’t go? Ravenclaw’s been giving us grief about that all week, but we’re pretty sure that if they didn’t have to stick to proper dueling rules, Snape would have beaten him hands down. He _is_ a Slytherin after all. We don’t imagine fighting fair is his specialty. But it _was_ just an exhibition.”

The professor’s mouth quirked as though he had something to say about Snape and fighting fair, but before she could ask, he changed the subject. “I had some business to take care of in London. Good turn-out, anyway?”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely. It looked like most of the school. Professor Flitwick says probably only half of them will come back, but that’s still a _lot_ of people. What were you doing in London?”

Remus sighed. “The aurors wanted to talk to me.”

“About Sirius Black? Have they heard anything about him?”

Remus raised an eyebrow at her eager tone, but answered anyway. “They wouldn’t say much. Guess they had a tip-off that he was seen over in Edinburgh, but then, that was in the paper, anyway.”

Mary nodded. She had seen that. It hadn’t looked like a very reliable lead. Some old muggle lady thought he was a homeless man until she got home and saw him on the news again. She had called it in, but there was no sign of magic used in the area.

“Speaking of the paper,” Remus said brightly, too-obviously trying to change the subject, “How go the Grangers’ efforts with that petition? Last you mentioned, Catherine Urquhart and some lawyer had just gotten involved, and it’s hard to make out anything from the editorials.”

Mary grinned. The quest to rid Hogwarts of Binns and its progress was a widely-discussed topic at the Slytherin breakfast table. “ _Well_ , my sources tell me the petition has over a thousand signatures already, and reading between the lines with the papers and the gossip, it sounds like most people still don’t know who’s behind it. Everyone’s sure it’s a woman, from her writing style, and probably a muggleborn or half-blood, since she occasionally includes a muggle turn of phrase.

“But no one can figure out why a muggleborn or half-blood would be undermining Dumbledore’s authority like this, because he’s been their greatest supporter in the Wizengamot for years. So the latest speculation is that she’s working for Narcissa Malfoy. Lady Malfoy is the best candidate, apparently, to be making this kind of trouble, because _Lucius_ Malfoy got kicked off the Board of Governors last year, and they’d be desperate to get a bit of control back over Dumbledore.

“Draco’s not saying much on the subject, and I’m not sure if it’s because he knows she’s _not_ behind it, or because he thinks she is, and just hasn’t told him. Last I talked to Hermione, she was mostly furious that her mother is meddling in Hogwarts business. Something about how Magical Britain is her world, not her mother’s and Emma has no right to stick her nose in anywhere she wants to.”

“ _Really_? Hermione’s always seemed very level-headed to me.”

The third-year shrugged. “She can be touchy about some things.” She had been touchier than usual, lately, which Emma, in a rather amused tone, had suggested was simply because her daughter was becoming a teenager. She _was_ nearly a whole year older than Mary, after all. The dental surgeon had _also_ sent a muggle book on _hormones_ and _your changing body_ , which Mary had _not appreciated_ receiving at the breakfast table. The other third-years had teased her about it for nearly a week.

Remus nodded absently and cast about for another topic. “Are you excited for your first Hogsmeade weekend?”

Mary sighed. “I _would be_ , if I was allowed to go. The Professor’s still worried about Black, even though you’d think if he was around Hogsmeade, someone would have spotted him by now. And I even promised to stay in the more popular shops, or only go to the Three Broomsticks, or even stick with one of the chaperones, just so I could get out of the castle for the day, but she still said no. Something about how it’s only been a bit over two months since I ran off and got lost and broke my arm, and she still doesn’t trust me to use common sense.”

“Sorry, pup. That’s tough.”

The Slytherin made a face. “I’m trying to look on the bright side – It’s been a great excuse to turn down all the offers of a date with boys I’ve never spoken to. I mean, I’d have to come back early for detention, anyway, but I wouldn’t put it past some of these guys to try to get me to come for just the morning.”

She had actually been completely flummoxed when the first one, a Ravenclaw fifth-year, had tried to chat her up and asked if she was going to town. She hadn’t realized that he meant it as an offer of a date until she was telling Lilian about it later, and had been rather short in her dismissal. After that, it had been like Lockhart’s Valentines all over again, but worse, since most of the boys asked her in person. One of the older Gryffindors in particular had been obnoxiously persistent. She’d been _very_ glad to have a legitimate reason to say ‘no.’

“And anyway she said she’d reconsider next term, so I guess that’s _something_.” Hopefully interest in snagging The Heir of Slytherin Who Lived as a date would have waned by then. Or at the very least, she might get one unmolested visit to the town before they realized she was allowed out of the Castle.

The Defense Professor patted her awkwardly on the arm, obviously uncomfortable with the thought of discussing her dating prospects, as he changed the subject. “Still not going to tell me what you’re in detention for?” he teased.

By this point, he had to know she wasn’t. She smirked and shook her head. “Ask Snape.”

Remus snorted. “Like that git would ever give me the time of day, let alone rat out one of his students. You know he hasn’t actually registered you for any _official_ detentions? Whatever it was, it must have been _serious._ ”

A wave of cold fear washed over her, and she realized that she was uncomfortable with the idea of Remus digging into her activities the previous year. She didn’t really think he would tell anyone who could get her into even more trouble, but she knew what she had done was wrong, and didn’t want him to think poorly of her. “It – it was. Remus, please, um… please don’t ask questions. Don’t look into it any more. It – we made some really bad choices, and we’re being punished for our actions, and I promise the punishment is fair, and we deserve it, but we’d be in a _lot_ more trouble if anyone else found out, so _please_ … just leave it.”

The professor looked slightly taken aback, and very worried at her sudden shift in mood, but she couldn’t quite find the words or the tone to console him. “A-All right,” he said, somewhat shakily. “If it’s that important to you, I’ll… let it drop.”

Mary peered closely at him, trying to decide if he was lying. She couldn’t tell. “I mean it. Don’t tell McGonagall or Dumbledore or anyone else. I – I don’t want my friends to get hurt over this.”

Remus hung his head for a moment, then nodded, squeezing her hand reassuringly. Mary squeezed back, and sat there a few moments longer, before she decided that the easy familiarity of their earlier chat was gone for good.

“I should get going,” she said, probably too quickly.

Remus nodded understandingly. “Come back any time,” he said with a sad smile.

Mary bit her lip. “Hogsmeade day?”

“Sure, I’ll be here.”

“Great.” It was a relief to have some plans for that day, other than hanging about with the underclassmen while all her friends went to town. She excused herself before things could get awkward again. Hopefully, _hopefully_ , he really wouldn’t draw official attention to the Conspirators’ trespasses.

###  Tuesday, 12 October 1993

#### Great Hall

The next week passed largely without incident. More classes, more Quidditch, and yet another detention (rendering four casks of fermented ex-flobberworms into queasejelly, a most accurately named substance, and a task which Mary was already doing her best to forget). There was one large exception: on Tuesday at dinner, Hermione had made one of her rare appearances at the Slytherin table, looking as well-rested and energetic as she ever had before acquiring the time turner, to remind Mary that the Muggleborn Students Association would be having their second meeting on Sunday at eight.

Mary was well aware of that. She had specifically arranged the Dueling Club meetings to over-lap with it, running from seven to nine.

“I can’t come,” she said, in her sorriest tone. “I already said I would go to the Dueling Club.”

Hermione had glared. “You said you would come to the MSA first!”

Mary had held her ground. “No, I definitely didn’t.”

“Elizabeth!”

At that, Mary had dragged Hermione bodily out of the Great Hall, because every Slytherin within earshot was staring at them.

“Eliza – Lizzie! What are you _doing_?”

“I don’t want to have this talk in front of the whole bloody school,” she explained shortly, dragging the older, taller girl into an empty room off the Entry Hall.

“ _What_ talk?!”

“I never said I would come to another MSA meeting.”

“I’m pretty sure you did.”

Mary glared at her friend. “No. You can quote whole lectures verbatim. You _know_ I didn’t.”

“But – I,” Hermione obviously stopped to think back for a moment. “Fine! Maybe you didn’t. But didn’t you have a good time?” she wheedled.

“No, I really didn’t. Look, I’m already busy with Quidditch and homework. I don’t have time, and now with the dueling club, you know how important I think it is to learn how to defend myself –”

Hermione cut her off. “Dueling club starts at seven – you could go there for an hour, and _then_ come to the MSA. Or I’ll even let you use the… you know. C’mon, Lizzie! It’ll be fun.”

“What? No!” Mary objected. “First off, people would _definitely_ notice if I was in two club meetings at once, and secondly, no, it won’t. I didn’t have a good time. I felt really awkward and out of place for the whole meeting.”

“Don’t be silly, Lizzie, you didn’t even talk to anyone.”

“Maia. That’s the _point._ I don’t have _anything_ in common with those kids.”

“What do you mean? You’re muggle-raised, too. _We_ have things in common.”

“We have things in common because we were both friendless outcasts before Hogwarts, and we spent almost every waking moment for two years together!”

Hermione looked like she had been smacked. “So, what, if I was any other muggleborn, you wouldn’t associate with me?”

Mary blinked and shook her head. “What? No! I’m friends with Dave, aren’t I?”

“But _Dave’s_ a _Slytherin_ ,” Hermione said, like this was a point that mattered.

“What does that even – No. Listen. Most of those kids are like… normal. Well adjusted.” Hermione’s eyes widened as she _got it_. “I – I just – look. It’s not that I have anything against muggleborns, or muggles, or the real world, but I never, ever belonged there. I don’t want to sit around talking about football or favorite programmes on the telly or computer games or any of that stuff. I don’t miss it. I didn’t grow up with it any more than Draco or Daphne.”

Hermione snorted.

“It’s true, Maia. I _slept_ in a _cupboard_ until I was eleven. I spent my entire childhood living like a poor relative taken on as a servant in one of your old fashioned novels. Lilian and Blaise have more fond memories of the muggle world than I do!”

“That’s no reason not to come hang out and learn about it!”

“Maia. You’re. Not. _Listening_ to me,” Mary said very slowly. “I don’t _want_ to go listen to a bunch of little kids reminisce about their happy muggle lives – it’s like rubbing it in that I never had that, even though I grew up in the same world.”

Hermione glared at her, hands on her hips. “Fine. Just – fine!” and then she turned on her heel and was gone, without a backward glance.

###  Sunday, 17 October 1993

#### Great Hall

Now the day of the fateful club meeting had finally arrived, and it appeared that Hermione was being petty and refusing to attend the first hour of the Dueling Club, like she had suggested _Mary_ do, out of spite. Mary had hardly talked to her outside of classes since the Ravenclaw had stormed off on Tuesday, though she had heard from Lilian (who was, thankfully, starting to perk up a bit, and occasionally talking to Mary without looking like she was about to cry) through one of the Hufflepuffs and Red Patil that she wasn’t the only person Hermione had gotten in a fight with.

Apparently Lavender Brown’s pet rabbit had been killed by a fox earlier in the week, which the drunken Divs professor claimed to have predicted. Hermione had pointed out that the rabbit hadn’t even died on the date predicted, Lavender had just _gotten the news_ that day, and with a classic-Hermione lack of tact, pointed out that Lavender couldn’t have been dreading the rabbit dying, since the news had obviously come as a shock.

Mary hadn’t had anything to say to that, except, “This is what happens when we’re not around to keep an eye on her. That girl. _Honestly_! It obviously came as a shock? How dense can you be?”

Lilian had giggled slightly hysterically at that and resolved to try to spend more time with Hermione, even if she and Mary were still having a fight about the MSA.

Tonight, though, Lilian was with Mary and several fellow Slytherins, because _she_ wasn’t _invited_ to the Muggleborn club, and wasn’t about to just show up and butt in where she wasn’t wanted when she could be learning dueling, or so she said. Last time, after the demonstration, Flitwick had talked animatedly about the goals of the club, the types of dueling they would be learning – with swords and knives as well as wands and possibly also staves – and then let the students mingle for the rest of an hour while he circulated, talking to each group and dividing them into those with experience and those without. This time, they were actually going to learn things!

They started at the beginning.

Professor Flitwick cast a _sonorous_ on himself, and began pacing the stage as he lectured excitedly on the formal art of dueling and what its rules entailed. Mary began to feel rather quickly as though she should be taking notes. She was also _shocked_ to learn that That Blond Fake had got something right, kind of – a big part of formal dueling, according to Flitwick, was showmanship.

“The Duel,” he said seriously, “begins with the Acknowledgement of the Challenge, otherwise known as the Bow. As with every aspect of the duel, the Bow can be used to communicate much to one’s opponent.” He leapt up onto a slowly-rising pillar, which carried him high enough that even the shortest in the crowd could see him. “To make a perfunctory nod suggests disdain for the conventions, but also wariness of one’s opponent,” he drew himself up and demonstrated, his body language reminiscent of Snape, who was, Mary thought, just habitually guarded.

“Too deep a bow suggests disdain for the opponent’s skills only.” This time he lowered his head in mock-subservience. “This is because to take one’s eyes from one’s opponent is tantamount to giving them a free spell!

“Similarly to the standard greetings, to bow from the shoulders indicates weakness, where a crisper inclination from the hips, straight-backed, projects strength.” Two more demonstrations. “A bow with many flourishes,” he imitated Lockhart, to the titters of the crowd, “indicates that one is more concerned with the battle of public opinion, won or lost by showmanship, than that of spellwork. To truly win a duel against one of _that_ sort, it is essential not only to beat him, but to do so quickly and decisively, using only the simplest of spells, that he should be humiliated – for that is the true loss for him.”

Someone shouted ‘ _Lockhart_ ’ from the crowd, and Flitwick grinned. “An excellent example indeed, Miss Rosier. Five points to Slytherin. There is a place for showmanship, of course, and a good half the points in a competitive duel are awarded for _how_ each spell is cast, but no matter how ornate or artistic one’s style is, a duelist _must_ be able to _win_ as well as to look suitably impressive doing so.

“Now, a _proper_ bow is taken from the hips, head up, eyes forward, always focused on your opponent, but _not on his eyes_ , can anyone tell me why?”

A hand was raised rather close to Mary, and an older Ravenclaw answered, loudly enough for the whole hall to hear, “Because if your opponent is a Legilimens, he may be able to use eye-contact to predict your strategy. And if you’re not an Occlumens, you’d never know.”

“Very good, Mr. Meyers. Five points to Ravenclaw. If you do not know whether your opponent has skills in the Mind Arts, it is best to assume that they do, and the traditional forms have been developed to reflect this. In a proper challenge duel, the wizard who is challenged bows _first_ , in acknowledgment of the challenge, accepting that the other has fair cause to call for a duel. Challenge duels, or _honor duels_ are illegal in Magical Britain, outside of a very strict set of circumstances, which you are all more than welcome to come to my office hours to discuss. I trust you all _do_ wish to get to some actual magic tonight!”

Scattered cheers met this announcement.

“In a competition duel, such as those sanctioned by the International Dueling Commission, both opponents bow at the same time, and to no less than a fifteen degree angle, thus eliminating any bias in their starting position. I only mention the issue of bowing in challenge duels to highlight the importance of bowing on the mark. Bow too soon, and you suggest you desire to make this a personal duel, rather than sport. Bow too late, and you suggest superiority over your opponent inherent in being the offended party. Either will disqualify you in a sanctioned match.

“Now, those of you I spoke to last time, who have some experience dueling, please demonstrate for your peers the correct bow.”

It was not terribly difficult to guess who in their little knot of Slytherin third-years would have some experience of dueling. Blaise and Draco both stepped forward and bowed in tandem, and then Daphne pointed out that there was an alternative sort of perfunctory curtsy for witches which _she_ demonstrated. Mary and Lilian attempted to copy both forms for several minutes, until Professor Flitwick cleared his throat again.

“Excellent, excellent. Good work. Now, there are two primary stances that one may take after the Bow: Offensive and Defensive.” He demonstrated. Offensive was with one foot in front of the other, wand held in a neutral starting position. Defensive was crouched a bit, ready to spring in any direction, with the wand held parallel across the chest. “If you would, please form a grid, and we shall practice both movements together, first the bow into the offensive stance, and then into the defensive stance…”

The students shuffled around, and Mary tried not to be too disappointed by the fact that Flitwick, unlike Lockhart, wouldn’t let them jump straight into sparring. Watching her fellow students bumble though the most basic movements (and stumbling slightly herself with the unfamiliar forms) she understood _why_ , but it was still a frustratingly slow pace. By the end of the lesson, the only spells they had been taught and told to practice were the Stinging Hex, the Disarming Charm, and the Simple Shield, with a promise of actual fighting (though limited to those three spells) next time (which wouldn’t be for a whole month due to Samhain coming up in two weeks). They were also assigned _homework_ : they had to go look up the rules for a standard IDC duel.

And then it got worse: as the Slytherins were walking back to the dungeons together, Daphne asked, “Mary, Lilian, would you like to join some friends and me for tea next Sunday?”

Mary nearly tripped over her own feet. (Blaise sniggered, and Draco looked around, spinning gracefully as he walked, without breaking stride, the bloody show-off.) _No_ , she would _not_ like to attend another one of those ridiculously formal, stuffy tea parties. Not here, at Hogwarts, where she thought she was _safe_ (from that sort of madness, at least). While she was recovering from her near-fall and wondering exactly how rude it would be to say no, however, Lilian answered for her.

“We’d be delighted, Daphne.”

Mary tried to catch her eye and glare at her, but Daphne looked over too quickly. “Of course,” she found herself saying under the blonde’s icy stare. After all, she wasn’t about to pass up a chance to spend more time with Lilian if Lilian wanted it, and she didn’t want to offend Daphne. She just wished it was anything other than a formal tea party.

She was rewarded with a sparkling, well-practiced smile. “Lovely. I’ll owl you the invitations.”

_Owl the invitations? When we spend hours in the same classes, every day?_ She couldn’t help feeling that she’d just been let in for something even worse than she had previously been imagining.

###  Saturday, 23 October 1993

#### Dungeon Classroom

“Let’s go, children,” Snape sneered, ushering the Conspirators into an abandoned, dungeon-level classroom, rather than their more usual potions lab. Mary sighed in relief as she realized that there were no cauldrons in sight _at all_. Her hair still smelled slightly of queasejelly (aka, _death_ ) from the week before. There were also no desks or chairs, aside from the professor’s. “I, unlike _some people_ , do not have infinite time to waste!” Then, obviously counting under his breath, “ _eight…nine…_ Lovegood? Where is Miss Lovegood?”

“Here, Professor Phobetor,” the blonde said, suddenly appearing behind him. Hermione, on the other side of the room, sniggered before covering her mouth quickly. The fifth-year Slytherins looked as though they would rather like to as well, but didn’t dare.

“Ten points from Ravenclaw,” the professor snapped irritably.

Luna, in her inimitable way, simply floated into the middle of the room and sat cross-legged on the floor before she said, pointedly, to a blank wall, “Names are like shoes.” Mary made a mental note to ask the younger Ravenclaw why she was angry at Snape. She had suspected as much the week before, but there hadn’t been much room for passive aggression when they were faced with the fruits of Draco and Lilian’s flobberworm assassination plan.

Snape apparently thought it beneath him to engage with the twelve-year old, because he proceeded to ignore her entirely. “It has come to my attention,” he said softly, “that nearly every… single… one of you has expressed an interest in self-defense recently, through the medium of the Dueling Club.” His gaze lingered on Hermione long enough that she flushed. She must, Mary thought, have been the only one who didn’t go to the second meeting. “This afternoon, in that same spirit, you will be completing an auror training exercise. _If_ any of you finish before the allotted time has passed, I will consider you to have completed a full eight hours for the day. The _goal_ is to break the spell I will cast upon you.” He pointed at the teacher’s desk. “Place your wands on the table and take a seat.”

“Wandlessly?” Adrian asked, somewhat nervously.

“That _is_ the challenge of the exercise, Mr. Lestrange,” Snape answered evenly, staring the boy down until, rather reluctantly, he pulled his wand from his pocket, and set it on the table. The others followed suit, Luna tossing her wand to one of the Weasleys rather than move from her spot on the floor.

Once everyone was seated, the professor announced, “The spell is called the Isolation Hex. It results in complete physical sensory deprivation, not coincidentally mimicking one of the few non-fatal side effects of over-administration of Veritaserum. In that case, however, the condition is _permanent._ The hex is finished by a simple _finite_. Unless you manage to successfully break the hex, you will remain in your position for the next eight hours. _Yes_ , Miss Moon?”

Aerin had her hand raised. “What if we need to use the loo?”

Snape sighed. “I will also cast a suspensory charm on you to keep you from soiling my dungeons.”

“Couldn’t smell worse than queasejelly,” one of the Weasleys muttered to the other, who nodded.

“Five points from Gryffindor, and I expect one foot on the uses of queasejelly from each of you by this time next week!”

Perry now had his hand in the air. “ _All_ of us, sir, or just the Weasleys?”

“The Weasleys and _you_ , Mr. Wilkes.”

The other Slytherins giggled. Even Mary and Lilian knew the value of deliberately misinterpreting instructions to do the least work possible, and they were only third-years. Asking for clarification inevitably resulted in more work, as any OWL student should know. Perry flushed.

“Anyone else?” Snape asked, glaring at the lot of them. “Very well, then. I recommend you lie down, and try not to panic.”

Mary reclined next to Lilian, wondering as she did so whether this was truly better or worse than their last detention.

The hex was a long one, in a language she did not know, and its wand-movement was complex. Mary watched as pale-pink light struck six times, before Snape turned to her, dark eyes merciless. “ _Horer, berore, ser intet, smake intet, lukter intet, ingen og navnlos, bli intet, ved mitt ord, la det sa bli!”_

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

Then there was nothing. She was blind and deaf. She couldn’t feel the floor beneath her, or the air moving in her lungs. It happened suddenly, even though she was expecting it, and she would have screamed if she could have, but just as she had not had eyes to turn away as she watched Connor Moon die, she had no mouth to open to scream. This was worse, though, than that had been, because the whole world had gone with her body – there was not even the white mist between visions. What if it never came back? Did she even exist, without a body and a place to _be_?!

Then all thoughts stopped.

They started again, an unknowable amount of time later, calmer, like dreaming. It had to be a dream. It _felt_ like a dream, where everything is inside your own head. An old muggle quote floated out from somewhere in her memory. _I think therefore I am. Does that mean if I stop thinking, I stop being? Did I just_ die _?_

It felt like a very long time had gone by.

Now past the initial panic and… passing out? Was that what that had been? Could you pass ‘out’ when there was no ‘in’? Anyway, once the initial panic passed, and Mary grew accustomed to being part and parcel with the nothingness that apparently surrounded her – no body, no world, only thoughts in non-being – this was not a bad way to spend a Saturday afternoon. No homework, no Quiddich responsibilities, no drama. Restful.

Still, she wouldn’t want to live this way forever.

It was rather boring, actually.

Was this supposed to be one of the terrifying detentions, or a tedious one? She had lost track.

More time passed. Probably. It occurred to Mary that since the only reference she seemed to have was her own thoughts, and as such, if she stopped thinking, time would have to pass much more quickly, or seem to, since there would be no way to tell that it hadn’t.

But as soon as she had that revelation, she couldn’t seem to stop thinking.

_Is this what going mad is like? Alone with your thoughts and nothing else?_

She tried to scream, but nothing happened. Or if it did, she couldn’t tell.

She tried desperately to reach out, to find something, anything, any sensation at all.

Nothing.

She felt scared. And more _alone_ than she had ever been before.

More time passed.

How long had it been? Four hours? One? She could get out early, Snape had said it was possible. But how could she even try to cast a _finite_ on herself with no self at all? That wasn’t just wandless and wordless, it was _inconceivable_.

This was, she thought, like being back in the cupboard. She started to hallucinate (probably – did it count as a hallucination when you _weren’t_ -seeing things that weren’t there?), imagining its walls closing in on her. She could almost hear Petunia Dursley screeching for her to wake up and make breakfast, smell her too-infrequently-washed gardening socks, stuffed under the bottom stair. But even _that_ would be better than nothing at all.

_Is_ this _what going mad is like?_

She flailed the limbs she no longer had, desperately seeking any sort of stimulus.

Nothing happened, of course.

She felt sick.

More time passed.

She imagined she was going through the motions of climbing onto her broom, kicking off, feeling the rush of wind in her face, and gravity trying to pull her back – not on her Nimbus, but on her very first ride ever. The sun was shining, and Hagrid was watching with Madam Hooch. She could taste the crisp sweetness of stolen apples. It was almost real.

She could, she realized with a sudden clarity, let herself get lost in memories like that.

Fear spiked through her.

_No! I have a life! Friends! Things I need to do!_

_I can’t stay here forever!_

_But Snape will let me go at the end of detention._

_But I don’t want to have to be saved!_

_Is it saving you if someone puts you in danger in the first place?_

Her mind drifted back to the Chamber of Secrets and the Weasleys, saving her from the Basilisk. She had so hoped that the Mabon ceremony would give her back the memories that were taken over those three days. But no, she realized suddenly, Snape said she had _consented_ to that. She was, at least when she knew what she had done, _willing_ to hide that memory from herself.

_That_ was a horrifying thought.

_Quickly, think about something else!_

_I wonder if this is what it was like for Riddle, living in the diary_.

The thought rose, as all thoughts seemed to in this place, unbidden. She decided almost at once that she didn’t want to think about it, but now that she had, she couldn’t let it go. Could she imagine _years_ of this?

No.

It hadn’t even been eight _hours_.

Maybe it hadn’t even been one.

_Fifty years of_ this _? Anyone would go mad… It can’t have been like this._

But what if it had? Maybe there was a trick to surviving it? To not letting your thoughts tear you apart or memories eat you alive?

Maybe he did let himself get lost in memories. Maybe he lived his whole life over and over, finding all the places he went wrong, all the things he would change if he could.

_Maybe he_ was _mad – madder than I realized._

Maybe he didn’t fight it – how long could you, anyway? Maybe the secret to avoiding madness was to give in and let your mind do whatever it wanted. Could your mind be lost if there wasn’t anywhere for it to be in the first place?

_That sounded like something Luna would think._

_Maybe_ I’m _going mad._

_Can you_ go _mad in only eight hours?_

_At least it’s not a_ painful _way to go._

More time passed.

She started counting, in her head, a substitute for a heartbeat that she couldn’t feel in a body that had as good as vanished. When she realized she had lost count, she started over again. And again. And again.

She really hoped time was passing.

The suspicion that it wasn’t led to fear creeping in, again.

It had to have been at _least_ eight hours.

What if Snape didn’t let her go?

Was she being paranoid? Maybe. But… What if she just… wasted away, her body stacked with the others’ like a pile of wood in a corner of the dungeons?

Would anybody miss her? All her friends were there, too.

_No_ , she corrected herself, _not all of them_.

She supposed that was true. Remus would probably come find her, if she didn’t come to class, or Professor McGonagall. Catherine and the Grangers would miss her letters, too.

_That settles it_ , she decided _, I can’t go mad_. The adults in her life (other than Snape, who was obviously insane himself, and possibly mysterious, book-sending Riddle) would never understand.

That was a nice thought. She dwelled on it for a bit, deliberately ignoring her fear and the sense of impending doom that went along with not having a body or a world to exist in, as least so far as she could tell. Intellectually, she knew it was still there, it was just… a bit… _difficult_ to believe it, at this point.

More time passed.

_I wonder how Lilian’s doing. And Hermione. And all the others. I hope they’re alright, and not mad. Perhaps not the Weasleys. No. Them too. I’d hate to see them even more insane than they already are._

More time passed.

She thought about why she was in this mess in the first place. Stupid Heir of Slytherin, in his stupid book, with his stupid basilisk! Couldn’t he just have possessed some idiot down Knockturn Alley and re-embodied himself there?!

She didn’t really blame him for wanting to get out of the book if it was at all like this, but his timing wasn’t worth _shite._

Stupid Lucius Malfoy, sending him to Hogwarts in the first place.

She wondered how the Weasleys had found out that he was behind it, anyway.

No, she didn’t, she was busy being angry at the bastards who were responsible for this mess: Lucius Malfoy with his stupid hair, and Tom Riddle in his stupid book, and the twins with their stupid _Gryffindorness_ , and maybe even Ginny for not telling anyone what was going on – she _had_ gotten rid of the book at one point, hadn’t she? Yes. Lilian was angry at her for that, last year.

She hoped Lilian was okay. Had anyone told Snape about her brother? Mary certainly hadn’t – she couldn’t – it was part of the ritual, since she was Lilian’s partner. The bond, and all that. She couldn’t imagine anything worse for the other girl right now than being locked in her head. Connor was clearly the only thing she could think about right now, anyway, even when she did have a body and a whole world of distractions.

_Worrying is much worse than being angry,_ she decided, feeling terribly, terribly anxious for her friend.

And then, a horrifying thought: _If Snape knew, would he have done this to her anyway?_

_Maybe_ , she decided. He had poisoned _her_ , after all. Well, all of them. But she hadn’t thought he would trick her like that. It was… it felt like… bad. She didn’t have words for this.

No, she did.

It felt like when she found out that Sirius Black was her _godfather_ , or rather, what it _meant_ that Sirius Black was her godfather.

Betrayal.

She felt like Snape had _betrayed_ her by poisoning her, and making her think she had been poisoned worse, when she _trusted_ him.

She wallowed in that thought for a while.

More time passed.

_My parents had really_ bad _taste in friends_ , she decided.

_I’m doomed._

_Probably either Hermione or Lilian is just waiting to stab me in the back._

_I wonder which one it is._

_Hermione? No. Lilian’s sneakier._

_But Hermione’s more vicious. And she is learning how to be sneaky, what with the time turner._

_But, well, no, Lilian probably couldn’t kill a fly, at the moment, even if she is the more morbid one._

_Is it talking to yourself if you’re not really talking?_

_Maybe I’ve been insane all along, and it just took this little experiment to notice._

She let her mind wander as she might have done in her cupboard, once upon a time, not re-creating memories with the same focus as when she had feared being lost in that first flight, but remembering back, one thing at a time, as far as she could. Little things, like breakfast, she found she could only remember in detail for a matter of days. Conversations with different people held a certain clarity over weeks, but the details blurred past then. Some things, like the pain of breaking a wrist, were just as clear the first time, so many years ago, as they were from the past summer.

More time passed.

She had a feeling that this lesson, these detentions, would be something she remembered for a long, long time.

Maybe that was the point.

Actually, come to think of it, hadn’t Snape said this was an auror training exercise? What on Earth was it good for, aside from having to be alone with your own potentially maddening thoughts for periods of time that were, quite frankly, absolutely meaningless? It was bloody _irritating._

Obviously he had meant for them to experience the horror she had at the beginning, and the fear – he had said this was like one of the side-effects of Veritaserum, so obviously it went along with his whole ‘reasons feeding Veritaserum to people is wrong: the what-ifs’ theme.

Maybe it was because he wanted them to have a timeless eternity to think about what they had done.

She wished she could just tell him she had learned her lesson, and let it be over.

She had long since passed from panicked to relaxed to bored to angry and paranoid to existential angst. What were those five stages of mourning Hermione had been talking about? Bargaining was definitely one of them. Could you mourn the loss of yourself if you were still thinking and therefore being?

She started making a list of things she would give up to have a body again. Then she started making a list of things she _wouldn’t_ give up to have a body again. She… wouldn’t kill anyone. Probably. Maybe. It depended on how much longer this torture went on, she decided. She wouldn’t kill anyone _yet_.

More time passed.

Maybe this was what dying was like.

If so, it wasn’t so bad. Like she had thought earlier about going mad, at least it wasn’t _painful_.

More time passed.

And then something happened.

A wave of… something passed through her, and the nothingness she inhabited, which, she realized, feeling (that wasn’t the right word) the tingling sensation (also not the right words) rise and fall ( _close enough_ ) across her… un-space (Words, she decided, were _hard_.) were one and the same.

Her thoughts froze as she waited.

It happened again, stronger, and then, after what seemed like no time at all, a third wave, even more powerful than before.

Then it was gone. But she was certain now that she hadn’t done whatever it was. Which meant there _was_ still a real world _out there_ , even if she couldn’t sense it at all, in any other way. The way it had sparked and flared as it passed through her reminded her of… something. Something _just_ out of grasp. Something that should be blindingly, glaringly obvious, as natural as breathing… Oh.

_Magic_.

_Of course – magic!_

_Gods and Powers, I’m an idiot. Of course there’s still magic._

She had no idea how to direct it – she couldn’t even really feel her own. But whatever sense it was that had registered the wave of power, if that’s what it was, _had_ to be magic. She could not see or hear or touch anything, but something had touched her, and she had _felt_ it.

Time passed as she considered that fact and then, tentatively, tried to reach _out_ , in the same way that she had felt the wave of magic that was not her own come _in._

Nothing happened.

She tried it again, harder.

She couldn’t decide if nothing was happening because nothing was happening, or if she was fooling herself into thinking she could sense something when she couldn’t, like seeing sparks and shapes when she had pressed too hard on her eyes in the dark of her cupboard, or if she had just, metaphorically, reached out into empty air, and there was nothing about to sense.

There was nothing for it but to push harder. _Reach_ harder. Further. As far as she could.

_There!_

Was that… something? Someone? She brushed against it again, and it seized onto her, dragging her under, like Piers Polkiss shoving her into the deep end and grabbing her ankles, weighing her down, the one and only time she had ever gone to the Little Whinging City Pool. She panicked, again, yanking her magic, or that new sense of power back to herself, but the _other_ wouldn’t let go. She was _caught_. It was _pulling_ at her! Drawing part of her _away_!

Fear spiked.

_Make it stop, make it stop, makeitstop, MAKEITSTOP!_ she screamed silently in her thoughts, pouring all her will and fear into it as she tried to wrench what she was suddenly certain _was_ her magic back to herself.

And then something _shattered_ and the world was back, and too bright – _close eyes_ – and painful, and she was screaming, and someone _else_ was screaming, and it hurt her ears, even with her hands clasped tightly over them, and her throat, and she could feel every stitch of clothing against her skin, and the pressure of the hard floor beneath her, and smell the stench of death in her hair, and the soap used to wash her robes and unwashed bodies all around her, and the sound of her heart and the taste of dust and the feel of air in her lungs were _everywhere_ , and she _couldn’t stop screaming,_ and _oh God, why?!_

A new wave of magic hit her, and blessed, blessed nothingness returned, this time complete.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

She woke with a jolt, scrabbling for a wand that wasn’t there, as her mind fought to catch up with her body. She sat bolt upright, gasping for air, blinking, eyes watering even in the dim light of the dungeon classroom, but it was _nothing_ like as bad as it had been last time.

A little blonde girl with too-wide, silver eyes knelt beside her, holding her wand. She snatched at it, holding it close for security. “Luna?”

“The King of Nightmares is pleased,” the girl said with a small smile, before standing, and offering Mary a hand. She took it, and scrambled to her feet. Everyone else was still lying on the ground, apparently unconscious, with glowing green or yellow lights around their heads.

“What?” she asked, feeling as she often did when talking to Luna that she was missing half of what was said (in a completely different way than she did when eavesdropping on older Slytherins).

The youngest Conspirator helped her to a conjured chair, across the teacher’s desk from a darkly unrepentant Severus Snape. He was smirking. Mary squinted a bit. Possibly a _proud_ smirk. “The King of Nightmares, I presume?”

He scowled at Luna. “Like shoes, sir,” she said pleasantly, then wandered off to sit next to Hermione, whose halo was the most yellow, bordering on orange. Mary watched, rather confused, as the second-year traced patterns on the backs of her housemate’s hands with the tip of her wand.

“Congratulations,” Snape said drily. “As you can see, Miss Lovegood is the only other student to have broken the spell thusfar.”

“That… that was what was _supposed_ to happen?” Mary asked, horrified.

“Perhaps if you describe…?”

She did. Snape’s smirk grew broader as he listened. “… And then,” she shuddered, “I woke up, and it was _awful_. Just… too much. Of _everything_.”

“Indeed. The breaking of an Isolation Hex is frequently compared to being hit with an overpowered Supersensory charm, applied to all the senses at once. Not dangerous unless you have been Isolated for over 48 hours, but it can be… shocking.”

“So… what happened? What – was that magic I felt?”

The professor nodded. “The renewing of the Isolation hex, at two, four, and six hours. It took you a little over six and a half hours to break free.”

“Wait – so it was only two hours before the first time? It felt like _ages_! And then almost no time at all between the second and third.”

“The perception of the passage of time is an interesting phenomenon. I take it you realized that the experience of the passage of time is dependent largely on thought within the spell?” Mary nodded. “And you tried not thinking, as a way to make it pass more quickly?” Another nod. “As you are now aware, maintaining a state of vigilance focused on one thought is far easier and more conducive to ignoring the passage of time that trying to reach a meditative state, at least without significant practice.”

“And that – whatever was pulling at my magic? What was that?”

“ _That_ was Miss Lilian Moon. She must have felt your probe and seized onto it, much like you felt the re-casting of the spell and attempted to follow it. Your _finite_ broke the charms on both of you.” Mary’s head whipped around, but Lilian was still unconscious. “She’s stunned,” Snape added.

The third-year nodded in understanding, then, still confused, added, “But… I didn’t cast a _finite_.”

“Tell me, what are the three key components of magic?”

“The wand motion, the incantation, and the intent?” Mary suggested. That had been the answer on their first-year Charms exam.

Snape smirked. “No, not a casting a _charm_ – base magic.”

“Um… I don’t know.”

A sigh. “Intent, yes, and _power_ and _control_.” He smiled slightly. “You turned your magic on yourself – which is in this case the aspect of control, though undoubtedly unpolished, with sufficient desire to make whatever was happening _stop_ , which is the intent behind the Ending Charm. You did this with enough force or power to disrupt the magic already acting on your mind, breaking the Isolation Hex.”

“So… I did wandless magic?”

“Wordless _and_ wandless, which is, in fact the purpose for which aurors use the spell. Now that you are aware of your magic, all that remains is to practice until you can maintain and direct it outside of your body.”

“There has _got_ to be an easier way!” Mary objected.

Snape chuckled. “Magic can be fast, easy, or effective, but only two of the three. And the first step, at least in this, is the most difficult. Five points to Slytherin.”

“That’s not fair, my liege,” Luna called from across the room. “You didn’t give Ravenclaw any points, earlier!”

“You, Miss Lovegood, should be pleased I have not _taken_ additional points for your impertinence in persisting with your insufferable terms of address.”

“Cognomena and sobriquets are traditionally considered a mark of fondness and esteem.”

“When bestowed between _equals_ , Miss Lovegood. I am your _professor_ and expect to be addressed accordingly!”

Luna looked up from where she was still sitting next to Hermione, whose halo had faded to a more greenish-yellow shade, and blinked absently at him. “Why didn’t you just say so, sir?” She seemed to have gotten over her earlier ire, which made Mary even more curious about why she had been angry.

Snape muttered something under his breath that sounded rather like, “Powers-bedamned Ravenclaws.”

Mary sniggered. It was nice to know that _someone_ could get under his skin.

“You may leave, if you like, Mary Elizabeth. I will consider your eight hours for the day fulfilled.”

“I’d, um… like to be here, when everyone else wakes up, if that’s okay, sir.”

He shrugged, and returned to marking essays. “It is of no consequence.”

So she went to sit beside Luna, who told her quietly about the monitoring spell on the Hexed Conspirators, and how she was calming them down by tracing magic over their skin when they became too agitated. When she asked how the younger girl had broken the spell first, however, she just giggled.

“I could escape from Time Out when I was five,” she grinned. “But it’s much harder to cast wandless magic outside of yourself. Mummy used to say I would have to wait until I was grown-up to do it properly and on purpose. Nowhere makes a good thinking-place, though, don’t you think?”

Mary shuddered. Her parents had used that spell on her as a _child_? No wonder she was so… odd.

 


	16. Why is it ALWAYS Halloween?

###  Saturday, 30 October 1993

#### Remus Lupin’s Office

“It was _horrible_ , Remus,” Mary said, as straight-faced as she could manage. “I’ve seen and done some pretty awful things since I came to Hogwarts, but this takes the cake, really.”

Remus laughed. “Worse than seeing someone killed?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely.”

“Worse than dementors?”

Mary pretended to think about this, and then lied. “I think so, actually.”

“Are you sure you’re not exaggerating?” the professor teased. “We are still talking about a _tea party_ , are we not?”

“It wasn’t _just_ a _tea party,_ Remus. It was a pureblood, girly-girl, Slytherin tea party. There were little heart-shaped biscuits with pink icing and a bunch of first and second-years all full of themselves, acting like their own maiden aunties, and gossip and plotting over the stupidest little things, like how to get Roger Davies’ attention, and – oh, Merlin – _and then_ , they started talking about _hair care charms_. It was like every awful, horrible cliché about being a pre-teen girl, paraded out for show over _three bloody hours_.”

“As utterly _awful_ as that sounds, it was just one afternoon. Surely you can move on.”

“No. I can’t. It was too traumatizing. And also I’ve been invited back for next month, and I can’t say no. Lilian went to great lengths to explain how _unspeakably rude_ it would be to decline such an invitation before the first one. Catherine was over the moon when I told her – she went on for six inches about how happy she was I was finally making proper connections – and it’s not that I don’t want to get to know the other girls, I just…”

“Find their idea of a good time to be painfully dull?”

“ _Exactly_.”

The wizard chuckled. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but that’s life – horribly unfair at every turn, and whenever it’s not stabbing you in the heart, it’s boring you to tears.”

Mary raised an eyebrow at that. It was far more sarcastic than Remus’ usual conversational gambits. “Bitter much?”

“Sorry,” he apologized, shaking his head ruefully. “It’s not my favorite time of year.”

She nodded understandingly. She thought the way the magical world treated her parents’ deaths was absurd, but she hadn’t ever really known them. Remus (and Snape, come to think of it) had grown up with them. It made sense that they would be extra touchy as the Anniversary approached.

“So how’s Lilian been doing?” Remus asked. “She’s seemed better in class.”

The third-year shrugged and sighed involuntarily. “She has been, a bit. Better, I mean. We haven’t been hanging out as much as we used to, but she’s been helping Draco with his Anti-Hagrid campaign again. Did you hear about the Acid Slugs?”

“Better than flobberworms,” the DADA instructor snorted. “I still can’t believe he managed an entire month’s lessons on those things.”

“Erm, I don’t think they were actually _lessons_ so much. Anyway, they came up with the idea of jumping on the Anti-Binns petition bandwagon by getting all of his students to sign one, and then owling copies to all the members of the board of governors demanding that they impose some sort of standards on Dumbledore’s hiring choices. I think they got almost all of them. They even had some of the Hufflepuffs approach the Gryffindors, all the way up through the seventh-years.”

“He – he wasn’t making the NEWT students look at flobberworms, too, was he?”

Mary nodded. “That’s what I heard. Never mind that they could probably handle the hippogriffs.”

“Good Lord,” the professor rolled his eyes.

“Right? So we figure Dumbledore has about a fifty-fifty record for decent hires in the past few years. On the one hand, there’s you and _Charity_.” (The man flushed slightly at her teasing tone, but he had long-since given up on correcting her address of the muggle studies teacher. He knew she only did it to annoy.) “And on the other, there’s Quirrellmort, Lockhart, and Hagrid. And not getting rid of Binns, but he was here before Dumbledore, anyway. So Morgana – Morgana Yaxley, she’s a prefect, now, I think I told you – she said that she thinks they could make a solid case for needing better hiring practices or qualification standards or the like. And Lils asked Sean to help write the petition, and he got the upperclassmen interested.”

“I’m surprised the upperclassmen aren’t too busy for that sort of thing.”

“Well, how much time does it take to sign a petition and pass it around your commons? Anyway, they’ve had a lot more awful DADA teachers than we have.”

Remus smirked slightly at that, and Mary recalled that he had, himself, attended Hogwarts since the DADA Curse started. “And the Binns Petition is still going strong?”

“Yep. Emma tells me she’s had a good deal of progress organizing a Muggleborn Parents Support Network. That’s not the name, though, hang on… it’s IMP… Informed Muggle Parents?” she shrugged. “Sounds right. Like a support group for the muggle parents. Her latest thing is trying to get anyone to actually take them seriously as, like, a lobbying group. I guess some friends of Mrs. Tonks are in on it, like Mrs. Diggory, but they don’t seem to have very much pull.”

“That would be Cadi Diggory?” Mary nodded. “I remember her from school – she used to be Cadi Carpenter. Quiet, but stubborn. I’d be surprised if she didn’t have a bit of influence with at least a few of the board members. And of course Alice Diggory is Lady Longbottom’s daughter-in-law, so there’s a family connection there, even if it’s only through marriage. I bet she’ll be able to make some serious in-roads given a month or two to work on people.”

Mary nodded again. “I’m sure that’s the plan, or, you know, something like that. Makes sense, anyway. From what I hear, Mrs. Tonks is _very_ good at politicking.”

Remus snorted. “Of course she is. She was raised to it. She threw herself out of the Black family the year that I started at Hogwarts, but no one who grew up in that family is stupid when it comes to politics, even…” he hesitated.

Mary reached across the desk and patted his hand gingerly. It couldn’t be easy remembering Sirius Black so close to the Anniversary, either. “Have the aurors, you know, mentioned anything?”

“No, of course not,” he said bitterly. “The official line is that they’re following every lead and are very close to making a capture, but that doesn’t mean anything. For all they know, he’s in Australia.”

The conversation lapsed momentarily, and Mary decided that the best way to change the subject was to go back to talking about her friends. “Lilian asked Draco to go to Hogsmeade with her today,” she confided in the older wizard. Draco had said yes, too, which was definitely more surprising. Apparently he didn’t like Pansy that much, despite half of Slytherin assuming they were already engaged. Mary couldn’t help but envy her friend – though more over being able to go to Hogsmeade at all than the fact that she had a date. “I think half the reason she’s so keen to make nice with Pansy and Tracey is so they’ll give her tips on dating and whatnot.”

Remus snorted. “What’s the other half?”

“Diplomacy and bad taste?” That earned her an outright laugh. “And they’re all in Divs, so, you know, not much to do there besides talk.”

“Trelawney really is a piece of work. Have you met her?”

“Once, in passing.” Mary had encountered the sherry-and-patchouli-scented Divination Professor only a few weeks before. “She predicted my death. Something about a Grim and terrible deathly omens. But Lilian says she does that at least once a class period. Apparently _she’s_ supposed to drown, and also be struck by lightning before the end of the year.”

“Sounds about right,” Remus grinned. “Anyway, how have the rest of your friends been? You’ve hardly mentioned Hermione at all.”

Mary squirmed in her seat. “Hermione’s been… busy.” They had made up their little tiff after their last detention with Snape – Mary had found Hermione in a nook in the dungeons, rocking and crying after Snape had revived everyone. Apparently the Isolation Hex was _very_ like being in the Diary – Riddle had done something like it to Ginny, and Hermione had spent the entire eight hours trapped in flashbacks to the Gryffindor’s experiences with the horcrux, which she had so thoughtlessly offered to share. But since then, they had only spent Wednesday evening together.

“Oh?”

“She’s taking a lot of classes, which aren’t really good story material, and I’ve got Quidditch.” Their association was also hindered by Hermione’s insistence on being seen studying during her frees, and staying out of sight when she was using the time turner. She thought it would look out of place if she was suddenly relaxing and hanging out with friends when everyone _knew_ she was in all the classes. When she _had_ seen her elusive friend, the Ravenclaw claimed to be spending most of her time under the cloak, either in the library or in Ravenclaw tower, but Mary wasn’t sure she believed her. While obsessive bookishness wasn’t exactly out of character, it _was_ unusual for her to be so vague about what she had been studying.

“I see.”

“Anyway, I’ve been spending more time with Dave, Alex, and Nora. They’re always hanging around the common room looking for something to do, so we’ve been exploring a bit.”

Just then, there was a knock on the door, saving Mary from having to elaborate on the fact that they were largely exploring a set of tunnels under Slytherin that required Parseltongue to access. Like the Warren, they seemed to go _everywhere,_ including out into the Forest, down to the little beach where the first-years’ boats landed (and were stored), and to a room at what _felt_ like the very heart of the school, the door to which _didn’t_ answer to Parsel. They assumed only the Headmaster could go _there_.

“Come in,” Remus called.

It was Snape. He was carrying a goblet, which was smoking faintly. He stopped at the sight of Mary, eyes narrowing. “Miss Potter. Lupin.”

“Ah, Severus, thanks very much,” Remus smiled politely, but he didn’t get up. “Could you leave it here on the desk?”

Snape did so, his eyes flickering between himself and Mary in a silent question.

“Professor Lupin and I have tea every few weeks, just to catch up,” Mary explained coolly.

“ _Catch up_?”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, sir, Professor Lupin was friends with my father as students. We have been in touch since my first year.”

“I… see…” Snape turned his evaluating look on Remus, who did his best to look innocent. “You should drink that directly, Lupin.”

“What is it?” Mary asked, looking curiously at the goblet.

“A particularly complex potion I require for relief of a chronic medical condition,” Remus explained, slightly too quickly, taking it up and obviously steeling himself. Potions _always_ tasted awful, especially the medical ones.

Snape snorted as Remus quaffed the liquid. “Chronic medical condition, indeed.”

“Are you okay?” Mary asked, suddenly fearful that, as they had joked about her first year, the DADA professor was dying, and had chosen to spend his last year at Hogwarts.

“His condition is not life-threatening,” Snape assured her, even as Remus broke down in a coughing fit – though that could have been from trying to drink the potion too quickly. “At least, not to him.”

“Sir?” she looked up in confusion. “I don’t under–”

“That’s enough, Snape,” Remus said raggedly, cutting her off. He was still wheezing a bit.

“Yes, she is rather intelligent, isn’t she?” The Head of Slytherin just gave his fellow professor a superior smirk. “Well, we shall see.”

“What in the names of Merlin, Morgan, and Mordred is _with_ the two of you?” Mary asked, frustrated by her complete lack of understanding.

Neither one answered. They continued their strange staring contest for half a minute before Snape turned on his heel and billowed away, with a reminder not to be late for detention.

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled under her breath. “Whatever. Speaking of, though, Remus, I should go to lunch.”

He nodded, looking decidedly more ill after having taken his medicine than he did before. “See you later, then, Mary.”

“See you.” She left before she saw enough that she had to add worrying about Remus to her list of serious concerns.

#### Great Hall

Whether Lilian would make it back from her ‘date’ in time for detention was currently topping that list. Mary hurried to lunch, hoping to see her fellow third-year there. Snape didn’t seem at all to be in the mood to deal with tardiness from any of the Conspirators today.

Unfortunately, Lilian _wasn’t_ there.

Mary grew more and more anxious on her friend’s behalf as the lunch period wore on, hardly hearing her younger companions chattering excitedly about Samhain. Nora was eagerly describing her father’s family’s rituals to Dave, with Alex throwing in the occasional comparisons to his mother’s stories of the holiday, though apparently her family had been more progressive.

As third-year Slytherins, Mary and Lilian were officially allowed to invite people to the Revel, though in practice, many of the people they would have invited already knew about it and would show up even without their reminder. They had tracked down Aerin, Luna, and Ginny earlier in the week, and found that Sean had already told Aerin to come, and _Luna_ had actually invited Ginny. The younger Ravenclaw had looked genuinely surprised when they tried to invite her, as though they ought to have known she would be there, even though the ceremony hadn’t been held the year prior, and it _was_ only her second year.

The Ravenclaw contingent of the Conspirators wandered over to the Slytherin table about fifteen minutes before they were expected to report to Snape’s office.

“Still no Lili?” Hermione asked. She had gone to town and returned with plenty of time to spare. Mary thought, not for the first time, that time travel must be very nice indeed. “She said she would be here!”

Aerin scoffed. She had been to Hogsmeade enough times that she didn’t think it necessary to go again, just for the morning. “Of course not. She’s going to be in so much trouble.”

Mary winced and nodded. She had told the bold Slytherin it wasn’t worth risking Snape’s wrath to wander around for a few hours with _Draco_ of all people, but Lilian had accused Mary of being jealous and went right on with her preparations, never mind the fact that Mary had _turned down_ fifth-years. (Not that she had wanted to go with any of them, anyway, but she might have said yes to Aerin’s friend Kirke if she had been allowed.) She had been relieved when word finally got around that she wasn’t going at all, and everyone had stopped asking. She _definitely_ wasn’t jealous!

“What are you guys doing this afternoon?” Alex asked brightly.

“Never you mind,” Aerin said haughtily, every inch the fourth-year. This, of course, only made the underclassmen more interested.

“You all are not, _was ist der Ausdruck_? Up to no good?” Nora smirked at them.

“They’re definitely up to _something_ ,” Dave opined, raising a challenging brow.

“Can we help?” Alex asked excitedly. “We helped Malfoy with the –”

“Secret mission we weren’t supposed to talk about!” Dave interrupted, elbowing his friend in the ribs.

“Procuring ingredients for queasejelly?” Luna suggested.

Nora tittered. “Ja! We can be very… helpful.”

Mary rolled her eyes. It just figured Draco hadn’t _really_ killed the damn flobberworms himself. Wanker. “We’re not up to anything. We have detention.”

“All of you? What did you _do?_ ”

Alex, Mary thought, was far too blatantly nosy for his own good. Hermione answered before any of the others could. “Either we illegally potioned the entire school using a post-NEWT truth serum, or we got caught sneaking around after hours by a particularly irritable, greasy professor and pissed him off even more by trying to talk our way out of our punishment. Which do you think?” Mary was impressed. Keeping the time turner under wraps (mostly) was doing wonders for her first friend’s ability to imply an un-truth without simply covering a lie in a flood of unrelated information.

“Well… I think I would have _noticed_ if everyone had taken a truth potion,” Alex said seriously.

Everyone laughed except Hermione, who just smirked, and Luna, who asked, “Would you really?” which only raised more giggles.

“Come on, you lot,” Aerin said, doing her very best to be the responsible oldest student in the group. “We’re going to be late.”

They made it to the dungeon office just in time. Lilian stumbled in fifteen minutes later, red-faced and out of breath, and was assigned an additional evening of detention scrubbing cauldrons for her tardiness, in addition to the day’s task of copying the line “I must respect the rights of my fellow students” for as many hours as they could. She complained about this at length, because no one had made it through the fifth hour and the OWL students quit considerably earlier, so obviously she hadn’t really missed any substantial part of the day’s torture.

Mary nodded along sympathetically, secretly pleased that the older girl’s ire over her additional punishment distracted her from recounting the morning’s adventures with Malfoy in excruciating detail. It was bad enough having to listen to Pansy talk about Anthony Corner and Tracey mooning over Cedric Diggory, who was admittedly very fit, even if he _was_ a Hufflepuff.

###  Sunday, 31 October, 1993

#### Hogwarts

As it had been the year before, Samhain fell on a Quidditch long-practice day. As it had been the year before, Flint laughed in the face of the poor second-year who had the nerve to suggest they take the day off from practice, or at least quit early. This time it was Mini-Higgs. The boy, who had been one of the first to object to Dave’s presence in Slytherin, had not been nearly as bad on the Quidditch pitch as Mary had feared he might be when he made the team. He seemed to know as well as she did that if the rest of the team had been forced to choose between their established star seeker and a new reserve chaser, they would have sided with her in any disagreement, and Flint had a very strict “no politics on the pitch” policy. Breaches of this policy were met with Gauntlet Drills (where the whole team took up beaters’ bats to create a bludger-field for one unarmed flier to attempt to dodge through) or at the very least hours of practice with the Heavy Quaffle. No one ignored it more than once.

Higgs, like Lilian, the year previously, had been warned in no uncertain terms that they would be expected to show up for practice, come hell or high water, and show up they did, despite the chill and the rain and the gusting winds coming out of the north. It was an absolutely _miserable_ practice, with their captain becoming so irritated at one point with their inability to hear him in the air that he grounded them all for an hour and a half to run and do push-ups in the mud. Even the downpour that had ensued in the last hour of practice didn’t get them completely clean after that, and Mary was certain she would never be warm again. She’d had to catch the snitch by clapping it between both hands, because her fingers didn’t want to open and close.

It was an extraordinarily bedraggled crew that made their way from the showers to the castle, speculating nervously about whether the Revel would even _happen_ if the rain didn’t let up. Even a magical fire might have trouble staying lit in _that_ kind of weather. Flint, who was now a seventh-year, admitted that he didn’t recall the Revel ever having been held in the rain before _._ But then, he assured the younger students, it _was_ only noon. There was plenty of time for the weather to clear up before they headed out of the castle again.

When they finally dragged themselves back to the Common Room, they found a small posse of NEWT students preparing to go brave the storm to cast some sort of weather-working spell, forcing it to move on. Miss Farley offered to let anyone who was interested come watch, but the entire team turned her down with one voice. They had had more than enough rain and mud for one day, thanks very much. Mary was more interested in whether she could somehow move one of the braziers from the common room to her bedroom and just curl up around it for a few hours. The answer turned out to be an emphatic _no_ , but she did go take a nice long nap, refusing to leave her bed until her feet felt less like little blocks of ice.

She had every intention of getting up at _some_ point and working a bit more on translating the Parsel book, or even homework (or working ahead to master the Warming Charm, for future practices), but ended up sleeping straight through until she was awakened by Lilian pounding on her door and shouting about being late to the Feast.

“Coming! I’m coming!” she shouted back, struggling (mostly) free of her bed before she was fully conscious and falling flat on her face.

“Are you okay?”

“Just clumsy,” Mary groaned to herself, dragging the blanket still tangled with her robes behind her as she opened the door, much to her friend’s amusement. “Yes! I’m coming!”

“This is why we don’t sleep in our robes, you daft doxie,” Lilian sniggered.

“I’m glad _you’re_ amused,” she sniped back, sticking her tongue out at the older girl.

“Well, the rain’s stopped, and I was just up in the Great Hall – it’s not as nice as last year, but they have these awesome fire-snake things floating around the ceiling.”

“You think it was Snape’s turn to decorate?” Mary asked, quickly re-making her bed and digging out an un-wrinkled over-robe while Lilian chattered at her from the doorway.

“Maybe. But there were bats, too, and I didn’t think illusions were his thing.”

Mary shrugged. “Whatever. Just let me wash my face, and I’ll be ready.”

She re-braided her hair too, on the advice of the bathroom mirror, then followed Lilian back to the Feast. Everyone was in high spirits, even those who would normally disdain the progressive celebration – Mary had learned over the summer that some families held Samhain as a fast-day. But they were all looking forward to the Revel.

The food was, as always, delicious. This year’s theme for deserts was Natural Disasters: towering shaved ice avalanches; volcano cakes that exploded with red and orange ‘lava’ as they were cut into; and the _pièce de résistance_ , a pudding sea with a spun-sugar island of Atlantis sinking under the waves. Then the Hogwarts ghosts put on a bit of a show at the end of it: synchronized gliding to proper, human music, rather than another Spectral Orchestra, and re-enactments of some of their more spectacular deaths. It was pretty impressive. The only other time the ghosts turned out visibly and _en masse_ was at the Welcome and Leaving Feasts, so it was easy to forget that there were seventy or eighty of them in the Castle.

The Heir of House Potter was secretly hopeful: this might very well be the first Samhain she had been a part of the magical world where _nothing at all_ went wrong.

That private hope lasted about half an hour after the House retired to their dungeon. Chess and Morgana were explaining to the underclassmen (including third-years, who had never experienced a ‘normal’ revel, either) that they would sneak out of the castle around eleven in small groups to convene at the Senior Woods and begin the ceremony. That was when Snape, for the second year in a row, billowed into the common room.

His dark eyes took in the scene before him in an instant – most of the upperclassmen were in their rooms, and only three of the six prefects were present. “Chesterfield! Yaxley!” he snapped. “We have an Alpha-Deux situation. Assemble the House, _immediately_!”

They ran. It was not often that Snape spoke with any degree of sharpness within the confines of Slytherin. Mary groaned. Alpha was the code for when all or most of the students were in the dorms, and she was pretty sure that the two-series was a threat to a non-specific student or students. Plan Alpha-Dos was a full-on House lock-down, for use in case, say, Fenrir Greyback managed to break into the castle, but they hadn’t covered what French meant. She had a feeling she would find out soon, though, since Snape was still speaking:

“Moon, choose five NEWT students and fetch back anyone who has already left to prepare the Revel. I have sent a Message, but it appears to have gone unheeded. If you encounter the convict Black, you may use all due force to defend yourselves.”

Every thought of security protocols fled Mary’s head; she froze on hearing Black’s name, even as most of the assembled crowd erupted with chatter.

“Silence!” Snape demanded, and the dull roar subsided to a mere susurration. Sean tapped five of his fellow seniors, including Flint and Warbler, and they followed him out of the Common Room, grim-faced, wands out. Upperclassmen began to filter in, hastily summoned by the fifth-year prefects.

“Black is _here_?!” Mary whispered, still stunned, to Lilian, just as Morgana re-appeared, somewhat out of breath from running through the tunnels.

“That’s everyone in the dorm, sir,” she reported. Snape examined a scroll briefly, then nodded.

“Sirius Black is believed to have infiltrated the Castle,” he said without preamble. “You are to make your way to the Great Hall immediately while the teachers perform a thorough search. You are not, under _any_ circumstances, to leave the Hall or attempt to track down the criminal yourselves. To be caught out of bounds before the all-clear will be considered a suspension-worthy offence.”

“But what about the Revel?” a boy called from the depths of the assembled students.

“Is the Revel held in the Great Hall, Mr. Rowle?” Snape answered sarcastically. “The dead will forgive your absence. Yaxley, Chesterfield, escort the House back upstairs. The stragglers will meet you there.”

And so Slytherin trooped back through the dungeons and up to the Hall, where Prefect Weasley, the Head Boy, was standing next to Dumbledore looking obnoxiously pleased with himself.

“The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough search of the Castle,” the Headmaster announced, as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick closed the doors behind them. “I’m afraid that for your own safety, you will have to spend the night here. I want the prefects to stand guard over the entrances to the hall, and I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in charge. Any disturbance should be reported to me immediately,” he added as an aside to Weasley and Clearwater. “Send word with one of the ghosts.”

He paused, about to leave the hall, and said, “Oh, yes, you’ll be needing…” then with a wave of his wand, the long tables removed themselves to the edges of the hall, standing against the walls. Another wave, and the floor was covered with hundreds of squashy purple sleeping bags.

“Sleep well,” he announced, and then he was gone.

The hall immediately began to buzz with gossip, and Mary longed to find someone who knew what had happened, but Morgana was reminding them to tell anyone they had invited to the Revel that it was apparently canceled, _again_ , even as Chess took a position guarding one of the side-doors to the hall, and sent a Message out of it, presumably telling Sean to bring in the rest of the house through there.

By the time Morgana let the underclassmen go to claim a pile of sleeping bags, Weasley was yelling about lights out in ten minutes.

Mary and Lilian hastily sought out Hermione and Aerin. It wasn’t especially difficult, given that they had set up under one of the house tables, and Luna was standing on top of it, waving at them. Ginny was there as well, apparently dragged away from her many overprotective brothers by Hermione. The twins and Ron were several rows of sleeping bags away, glaring at her.

Ginny was valiantly ignoring them as she explained, “And then Peeves said, ‘You’ll be lucky!’ or something like that – oh, hey, Lizzie, Lilian. Do you want me to start over?”

“Definitely,” Lilian said, nodding firmly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Is that everyone?”

“Almost,” Mary answered. “What happened?”

“Well, if we could stop being interrupted, that’s what Ginny was telling us!”

(“Hello, Lilian Grace, Mary Elizabeth,” Luna said, allowing her head and shoulders to droop over the side of the table.)

 “Just a sec,” Lilian said to both Mary and Hermione. “Aerie, it’s nothing to worry about, but,”

(“Erm, hi, Luna. Again,” Mary answered. They had already waved hello, after all.)

“ _Morrigan_ , Annie, you can’t just start out like that! Now I’m definitely going to –”

“Shut _up_! It’s Sean – it’s nothing to worry about, but he’s leading the party to disband the Revel and bring everyone back to the castle.”

“You mean he’s _out there_? With _him_ on the loose?” Hermione sounded shocked.

Aerin just sighed slightly. “Well he _is_ a seventh-year, and a Slytherin Prefect. He took backup, right?”

“Five other NEs,” Lilian nodded.

“Okay, then. I’ll try not to worry too much about him.”

Hermione looked back and forth between the sisters for a moment before she said, “Oookay… so does that mean that Ginny can tell us what happened now?”

The redhead was still waiting patiently to do so.

“I think so, yes,” Luna said, her blonde hair briefly vanishing as she looked up and around. “Blaise Ricardo and Daphne Elena were going to come over, but they’ve been waylaid.”

Ginny let out a gusty sigh. “Alright, then. It’s not really that long a story, anyway… We all left the table after dinner and started making our way upstairs, but when we got to the corridor where our dorm is, traffic was backed up all the way to the stairs. You all, um…”

“Yes, yes, they know that your common room is on the seventh floor, behind a portrait called the Fat Lady,” Hermione said shortly.

“ _Is it really_?” Lilian asked, wide-eyed, earning her an elbow in the ribs from Mary. “Yeah, we already knew that,” she admitted, in a far less sarcastic tone.

The candles went out in a wave, and the girls lit their wands, intent on the youngest Weasley’s story.

“Right,” Ginny glared. “So we all got upstairs and traffic was backed up, and it turned out the portrait was closed. Then Percy got there and was being his usual pompous arse self, saying things like ‘Let me through, I’m the Head Boy!’ and ‘You can’t _all_ have forgotten the password!’”

Mary looked around, realizing quite suddenly that a hush had fallen over the hall, followed by a wave of laughter.

The pompous arse in question swooped down on them seconds later. “Ginevra Phyllis Weasley! I said _lights out_!”

“Oh, stuff it, Perce,” the younger Weasley sassed him, peeking out from under the table.

Mary bit her lip, hard, trying not to laugh. The Head Boy scowled. “Don’t think I won’t take points from you just because you’re my sister!”

“It’s not even…” she cast a tempus charm in his face and smirked as he recoiled from the glowing red numbers. “We still have half an hour until curfew!”

“Headmaster Dumbledore left _me_ in charge!” Percy objected tetchily. Mary imagined he said that phrase quite often as a child, but with ‘mum’ in place of ‘Headmaster Dumbledore.’ “Five points from Gryffindor for your backtalk!”

Ginny shrugged. “You know that hurts you more than it hurts me, right?”

“Another five points!”

“Weasley?” Sean Moon’s voice called softly from somewhere nearby. “What seems to be the problem?”

Mary didn’t miss the sigh of relief from both of his sisters.

“Your sisters have been a poor influence on mine, Moon,” Percy said, peeking under the table to see who she was sitting with, to a scattered chorus of, “Good evening, Prefect Weasley,” and many giggles.

“What have they done _now_?” Sean asked. Mary fancied she could _hear_ him rolling his eyes.

“They won’t _stop talking_!”

“Well, it _is_ only nine-thirty. Curfew’s not until ten…” Sean said reasonably, leading Percy to sputter indignantly. “Come off it – Clearwater said she wanted to talk to you…”

There was a decidedly offended harrumph, but then Percy finally moved away.

“Are you alright, Sean?” Aerin asked.

“Course I am, Aerie. Everyone’s back safe. No sign of Black,” he sat cross-legged beside them, wand lit. “Miss Weasley, care to fill me in on what happened?”

Ginny blushed faintly as he gave her his most charming smile. Lilian prodded him with her wand and told him to stop teasing her friends, but Ginny said yes, anyway.

“Everyone was stuck in the hall outside of Gryffindor, and Prefect Weasley had just showed up,” Hermione reminded her.

“Yeah, right, so, then the next thing I heard was Perce yelling all panicked-like for somebody to fetch Professor Dumbledore. Not sure who did, but someone must have, because he showed up a few minutes later. He kind of made a path through the crowd, and I kind of followed him. I got close enough to see that the Fat Lady’s portrait was all cut up, bad enough that there were strips of canvas on the ground. And then McG and Lupin showed up, and Snape, not sure why he was there…”

“Because he always has to fix this sort of problem,” Hermione said blithely, earning strange looks from all of the Slytherins. It wasn’t untrue that Snape was the most security-conscious Head of House, as evidenced by the fact that they _did_ have a plan in place for just such an occasion as this, but it did seem rather odd for Hermione to remark upon it. Sean motioned for Ginny to continue.

“So McG and Lupin and Snape show up, and Dumbledore says, ‘We need to find her!’ and sent McG to find Filch to search all the paintings in the castle for the Fat Lady. And _that_ was when Peeves chimed in saying we’d be lucky to do – she’s apparently a mess, and hiding in shame, crying. And then Dumbledore asked really quietly if Peeves knew who did it, or something like that, because _Peeves_ said loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘He got very angry when she wouldn’t let him in, you see. Nasty temper he’s got, that Sirius Black!’”

“And then what?” Lilian asked as Ginny paused.

“Then that was it. He sent us all back down here, and Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw came in about ten minutes after, and then you lot.”

“Thank you, Miss Weasley,” Sean said, excusing himself to speak to the other Slytherin prefects.

“What happened in Slytherin?” Aerin asked.

“Snape just came in while we were all getting ready for the Revel and said we had to come back up here, and that if we were caught out before the all-clear, we’d be suspended,” Lilian said with a sigh. “Revel’s cancelled, by the way.”

Ginny nodded. “I’ll tell the twins. Back in a minute.” She scrambled out from under the table and picked her way over to her brothers.

“I can’t believe he’s really here,” Mary hissed furiously.

Her friends made vague noises of agreement, Luna adding, “There are much nicer places to run away from Azkaban for. Like Tahiti,” which made them all chuckle.

“What I want to know,” Hermione said suddenly, “is why he went up to Gryffindor. Surely everybody knows that Lizzie’s a Slytherin.”

Mary made a face. “But we were all at the Feast, anyway.”

“Perhaps the wrackspurts have led us astray,” Luna suggested.

“You think he’s after something else?” Aerin asked the little blonde.

She shrugged. “The hypothesis fits the evidence, such as it is.”

“He was a Gryffindor, wasn’t he?” Lilian asked excitedly. Mary nodded. “Maybe he left something important in his old dorm room.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno,” she shrugged. “Something he made or worked on at school, or maybe a spare wand or something?”

“I really don’t think Sirius Black would have left a spare wand in Gryffindor Tower just in case,” Aerin said scornfully, but Hermione’s eyes widened.

“The Map!”

“What map?” Ginny asked, crawling back under the table.

“Yeah, what she said,” Aerin turned to Hermione. Luna cocked her head to the side slightly, listening more intently.

“Hang on,” Mary said, then cast the latest Sneaking Spell over their group. “ _Muffliato!”_

“Good idea, Liz!” Lilian repeated the spell for good measure. “Those should hold for a couple minutes.” When they could finally cast it silently, it would last for an entire conversation.

“What map?” Ginny repeated herself.

“The _Marauders’_ Map,” Hermione said, pulling it out of her pocket and spreading it on the floor between them. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good!”

“Ooh,” Luna sighed as the ink spread across it. “That’s clever! A disguise against Nargles!”

“What _is_ it?” Ginny asked, peering at it closely. “Are those dots _people_? Where did you get this?”

“My father and his friends, including the traitor Black, made it when they were in school,” Mary answered. “And yes, all the dots are people, though I guess we’re all overlapping too much to read the names now.”

“I bet that is what he was after!” Lilian declared. “Just think how useful it would be if you were looking for someone!”

“Like Sirius Black?” Aerin said pointedly.

All six of them leaned in as Hermione performed the locator charm. Nothing happened.

“Damn! He must have already left the wards!” she scowled.

“What’s this?” Ginny asked, pointing at one of the small circles that indicated a floor of Gryffindor Tower.

Hermione leaned over to check. “Peter Pettigrew,” she said dismissively.

“The man Black blew up?” Mary asked, astonished. “But, how?”

The older girl sighed. “Well, I think it’s in fairly poor taste, now that, well… you know… but Fred and George think it’s a prank on Pettigrew – he was one of the Marauders, too, right?” Mary nodded. “So it makes sense, as a sort of in-joke, since he’d have seen the map. But, well, I’m getting ahead of myself. When I asked about it, they said he seems to attach himself to the Gryffindor boy, or maybe just the boy or the person in general, that the owners of the map would find most amusing. Sometimes his dot just hangs around their bed all day. Makes it look like they’re _together_ , you know? They say… well, I shouldn’t laugh, but it is a bit funny… it used be attached to Prefect Weasley, and then when Ronald started, it switched to him.”

Everybody shared a giggle as Mary considered this statement. “That does, actually, sound like the sort of thing they’d do, from what Remus has told me,” she admitted. Not that wizards would have found anything particularly funny about two boys being together in general, but she thought she knew the Marauders well enough from Remus’ stories to say that they would have thought it hilarious to make out that one of their own was dating someone he categorically wouldn’t have been interested in, like Ronald Weasley.

There was a beat of silence, and then Aerin said, “Do you think we ought to give this to the Professors? If they’re trying to find Black, I mean, it could be helpful.”

Hermione shrugged. “So far as I can tell, it draws its information from the school wards, so anything it can tell us, the professors should already know.”

“Hmmm,” Aerin hummed reluctantly, but refrained from insisting.

After that, there seemed to be nothing more to say. Mary lay awake for hours, waiting for the all-clear to be given. Every so often, light lanced across the Hall from the main doors as one of the teachers poked their head in to check on the students. The ghosts floated around, apparently aimlessly, talking to the prefects to keep them awake at their posts.

Sometime around three, Dumbledore himself reappeared. He spoke to Percy, briefly, then made his way back past Mary and her friends as Snape entered the Hall.

“Headmaster? The whole of the third floor has been searched. He’s not there. And Filch has done the dungeons; nothing there either,” her Head of House reported. Mary wondered briefly why _Filch_ had investigated the dungeons, but decided it probably wasn’t important.

“What about the Astronomy tower? Professor Trelawney’s room? The Olwry?”

“All searched…”

“Very well, Severus. I didn’t really expect Black to linger.”

“Have you any theories as to how he got in, Professor?” asked Snape.

“Many, Severus, each of them as unlikely as the next.”

Mary squirmed around until her head was at the edge of the table and she could peek out. She could only see Percy’s back, and Dumbledore’s profile, pensive as always. Snape looked furious, as his eyes flickered briefly to her face. She smiled self-depreciatingly for her poor attempt at eavesdropping, and he ignored her.

“You remember the conversation we had before the start of term?” he asked.

“I do, Severus.” Dumbledore’s tone held a note of warning.

“It seems – almost impossible – that Black could have entered the school without inside help. I did express my concerns when you appointed –”

Dumbledore cut him off, but it hardly mattered. _When you appointed Remus Lupin_ , she knew that’s what he’d meant to say. She glared fiercely at the Potions Master. Next chance she got, she would make a point of defending her friend, who most certainly _had not_ helped Sirius Black sneak into the Castle.

Apparently she was in agreement with Dumbledore, for once, because he said, “I do not believe that a single person inside this castle would have helped Black enter it,” before he changed the subject, very firmly. “I must go down to the dementors. I said I would inform them when our search was complete.”

“Didn’t they want to help, sir?” Percy asked. Mary had to bite back a snort at the thought of a helpful dementor. Had he not been on the train?

“Oh, yes,” Dumbledore said coldly. “But I’m afraid no dementor will cross the threshold of this castle while I am headmaster.” And then he strode away again.

Snape watched him go with an expression somewhere between resentment and disbelief before he went as well, presumably to find the prefects and give them the all-clear. Mary sighed as she wriggled back into place between Lilian and Hermione.

“Alright, Liz?” Lilian asked sleepily.

“I just hate feeling so… so angry. And helpless,” she admitted. There was a reason she was still awake, five hours after the end of their discussion, and it wasn’t because she was scared – they all knew Black wasn’t in the castle or on the grounds. It didn’t help that she had taken a nap earlier, but… “It’s… frustrating, being so close to the traitor who got my parents killed, and not being able to do anything,” she elaborated. “And on _tonight_ , of all nights.”

One of Lilian’s arms snaked under Mary’s head, and the other wrapped around her chest in a sort of sideways, lying-down hug. “It’ll be okay,” she whispered, pulling Mary close to herself. “They’ll catch him. Your parents will be avenged.”

“I hope so,” she mumbled back, slowly relaxing into the strange embrace. It was awkward, because the most she could do to return it was hold Lilian’s hand in front of herself, but also comforting, feeling her solid presence through their sleeping bags, having her back – literally. And Lilian’s arm _did_ make a very nice pillow.

Eventually she fell asleep, with thoughts of Snape and Remus and Black chasing each other around her head, and Lilian’s Quidditch-roughened hand clutched tightly over her heart.

 


	17. The Will to Win

###  Monday, 1 November 1993

#### Hogwarts

Mary woke at what felt like an obnoxiously early hour, as the House Tables were levitated back to their usual places, and the level of light and chatter around her increased suddenly. Luna, to absolutely no-one’s surprise, was a morning person, and greeted all of her friends far too cheerfully, while Ginny growled at the blonde Ravenclaw inarticulately. Hermione cast a time charm and sat bolt-upright with a panicked-sounding squeak, and the first thing Mary heard from Aerin was a gasping laugh and, “Oh, Merlin, Hermione – your _hair_.” Lilian didn’t make any move to get up at all, burrowing her face into Mary’s back and mumbling what she _thought_ was, “Make it go away.”

She had just opened her eyes to stare at the rapidly-lightening sky above her when it was obscured by a smirking Zabini. “Potter, Moon,” he drawled, “I know what they say about girls who play Quidditch, but really, show some _discretion_.”

Mary, who in fact did _not_ know what ‘they’ said about girls who played Quidditch, just glared at him as he wandered over to their table, still dressed in last night’s robes, obviously amused. Honestly, he was one to talk about _discretion_ when he had been obnoxiously physically affectionate ever since school started this year. She prodded Lilian hard in the shoulder, anyway. They had been in the Hall for hours, and she really needed the loo.

When she returned, she found that morning classes had been cancelled – which was just as well, since they were all running at least an hour behind their usual schedule. Most of Slytherin was trying not to meet anyone else’s eyes, as they were all horribly unkempt, while a few select individuals (including Blaise, who had doffed his wrinkled robes and now simply looked attractively tousled, in his proper wizarding pantaloons and a muggle tee-shirt) seemed to be reveling in everyone else’s discomfort. Hermione, hair somehow piled on top of her head in a way that looked almost intentional, along with a yawning Aerin and bright-eyed Luna, had absconded to their own table, and Lilian appeared to be trying to go back to sleep with her head dangerously close to the sausages.

Mary was not really hungry. The idea of food was actually slightly sickening, on what had to have been less than four hours’ sleep. She jammed an apple in her pocket for later and was picking at a piece of toast when Blake MacDougal appeared behind her, with far more energy than she thought decent.

“Wotcher, Blitzen!”

Mary groaned at the nickname. She didn’t _think_ that anyone on the team (except maybe Lilian) knew that it was a reindeer name, but it still irritated her. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?”

“The more you complain, the more we like it,” the second-year grinned. “Oi, Moon, wake up! Flint says we’re meeting in the commons at half eight.”

“What time is it now?” Lilian grumbled.

“Half seven.”

“Ugh, _fine_.” The older Slytherin grabbed a muffin and stomped down the table, doubtless intending to shower and dress before the meeting.

Blake smirked as he watched her go. “Have you seen Score or the Sadist?”

Mary snorted a little, as she did every time Blake mentioned Sadie Rosier. She probably shouldn’t, but it was true – the fourth-year Keeper was incredibly hard on both of her reserves in training – far crueler than Flint, which was saying _a lot_. “I haven’t seen Malfoy, but _Sadie_ is down there.” She pointed away from the high table.

“Thanks, Blitz!” Blake chirped, and bounced away again. Mary just shook her head. After a few minutes, she gave up her toast as a bad job and followed him, smirking to herself as she overheard Sadie telling him off for interrupting her breakfast conversation.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

Pansy and Tracy got to the showers before Mary, so she was slightly late for what turned out to be an impromptu strategy meeting. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to have missed much.

“Is it true you saw the Grim last night?” Vinnie asked as she took a seat in the rough circle as unobtrusively as possible. Flint spotted her anyway.

“There’s a Grim on campus?” Lilian sounded surprised. “Those are really rare.”

“Don’t they mean you’re going to die?” Higgs asked excitedly.

“Don’t be stupid Mini-Higgs,” the Black Dog expert scoffed.

“No, it’s true!” Snark claimed, looking at his Captain and his fellow beater with concern. “My uncle saw one once, and he died two weeks later!”

“And they say old Bilius Weasley saw one before he died, too,” Malfoy drawled.

Sadie chuckled. “Wasn’t he the one Auntie Dru ‘allegedly’ offed for pulling flowers out of his arse at that memorial celebration in ’86?”

“Well, _yes_ ,” Draco admitted, “but the point is, the Grim _foretold_ it.”

“Who is Auntie Dru?” Mary whispered to Lilian.

“Druella Diane Black nee Rosier – Draco’s maternal grandmother, and mine and Sadie’s third cousin twice removed,” the older girl answered quietly, before saying more loudly, “The Grim doesn’t _foretell_ death, Draco, they’re just drawn to places where the Veil is thin, so like, where lots of people have died.”

“And the Forbidden Forest?” Blake asked, leaning forward on the edge of his seat.

“More like the Senior Woods, and a half-completed ritual to part the Veil for Samhain,” Bole pointed out condescendingly.

Vinnie glared at the lot of them before he turned back to Warbler. “So did you see it or not?”

“We definitely saw _something_ …” the beater hedged, throwing desperate looks at Flint.

Stewart Podmore arrived at that moment with Greg hot on his heels, and the Captain took the opportunity to change the subject. “Now that we’re all here,” he said, glowering at the late arrivals, “I have a proposition.

“As you are all aware, Farley, Carpenter, and Madden did a weather-working yesterday to ensure good conditions for the Revel. They assured me later that there is no chance that this storm system will clear up before Saturday’s match. It was all they could do to punch a hole in it for the night and dry out the Clearing.

“So: that means it’s going to be cold, wet, and probably raining come Saturday. With that in mind, I want to go over the playbook again, this time with the input of the reserves as well as the returning starting line. Collision rates are higher in the rain, so there’s a chance we’ll have to sub players. We’re looking for anything that takes advantage of poor visibility, including those that the reserves are confident in their ability to pull off. We’ll focus on that particular subset of the book for the rest of the week…”

Mary was certain that everybody felt like groaning, but only Podmore was stupid enough to do so aloud. He was swiftly told off, and warned that it was that sort of attitude that would have his place switched with Blake as first-reserve. Threatened with that degree of public humiliation, he quickly stifled his complaints. An hour later, they had more or less agreed on a core of ten plays (with about thirty variations) to drill relentlessly over their last few practices. After that, they discussed what Warbler sarcastically referred to as ‘survival tactics’ because Flint was concerned that the Weasleys and Wood would be upping the ante on their usual inter-house harassment, and he wanted all of his fliers un-hexed and well-rested for Saturday. Finally, at a quarter of eleven, the Captain dismissed them with apparent reluctance, and an order for Mary to remain behind.

Lilian watched from her sofa with evident curiosity as he pointedly cast secrecy spells around them, despite the fact that there were only about three others in the commons. Mary recognized _muffliato_ , but not the glowing blue-green bubble of _obscurent labiorum_.

“What’s that?” she asked without thinking.

“Prevents lip-reading. This is strictly a deniable assignment,” Flint answered shortly.

“Denying what, exactly?”

“I’m calling in that favor you owe me, Potter.”

Mary was starting to feel distinctly nervous. “What do you want me to do?”

Flint took a deep breath. “As you know, Hufflepuff is our main competition this year.” Mary did know this. Flint had gone on about it at great length over the past month or so. “They have a great line-up, and Diggory’s a much better Captain than Tufts was. Most of the team, though, is not used to training in all weather. They only just started flying wet practices this year. So the way I see it, we have an opportunity here. Flying in the kind of weather we’re expecting, we can take them easily. If we wait until January, well… who knows? All we need to do is get Gryffindor to request to switch their place in the line-up with Hufflepuff.”

All of that made sense, but Mary still didn’t understand what that had to do with a favor on her part. “So what do you want me to do?” she repeated.

“You and your friends did _something_ to get punished on a massive scale. ‘Potions tutoring’ is _always_ code for detentions. And you apparently did it without getting caught by anyone but Snape.” Seeing the look on her face, he quickly added, “I don’t care about that – I’m sure I’m better off not knowing the details. But don’t even bother denying you have resources, and a history of breaking the rules.” She gave him her best ‘admitting nothing’ look, and he smirked unpleasantly. “What I want from you is that you find a way to take the Gryffindor Seeker out of commission for the day of the match. I don’t care how you do it, as long as you’re not caught. Wood didn’t take on a reserve seeker, the bloody idiot, and he won’t have time now to tap someone – he’ll _have_ to ask for a lineup change or forfeit, and that’s not likely – this is his last chance to win the Cup.”

Mary realized her mouth was hanging open stupidly and closed it. She was very tempted to point out that the Gryffindor beaters were also stuck in detention every Saturday, but she held her tongue, mostly because she didn’t know if Snape could or would enforce their attendance at his apparently-unofficial detentions. Probably not, actually, since he would then have to explain what they had done to Professor McGonagall. Instead she asked, “How am I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t care, Potter! Figure it out.”

“But, _Flint_ …” This sounded uncomfortably close to cheating to her, and not in an ‘accidental’ cobbing kind of way (which figured in at least half of the plays they would be practicing for Saturday), but in a way that could get them all kicked off the team forever.

“No buts, Potter. You owe me.”

She did. She wouldn’t have made it through the first week of term without him. She caved. “Fine. But can I at least have help?”

Flint ticked off two points on his fingers: “Get Thorpe benched by any means necessary. Don’t get caught. Everything else is up to you. I don’t want to know about it, I don’t want to hear about it. Just make it happen. Clear?”

“Crystal,” she responded automatically, slightly shaken by the fervor in his eyes. She had known for ages that the first rule of Slytherin Quidditch was to win, but she hadn’t thought that even Flint would go _this_ far. He was clearly every bit as mad as his Gryffindor counterpart.

“Good. And don’t be late again.” He dropped the spells and stalked off toward the boys’ dorms.

Lilian smirked at Mary’s expression. “What was _that_ about?”

###  Tuesday, 2 November 1993

#### Hogwarts

It did not take long for Mary to fill Lilian in on the details of Flint’s mission, nor for the girls to decide that they had to do it – or at least try. Mary was uncomfortably aware that her acceptance within Slytherin was based around her status as the Heir, her somewhat deserved reputation for lashing out violently when she lost her temper (as when she had dealt with Malfoy in first year, or the boys bullying Dave), and her popularity as Slytherin’s Seeker. If she refused Flint and the Quidditch team turned against her, there would be no salvaging her reputation, and she could easily go back to being a target within the House.

It also had not taken long to decide that they should not involve anyone from outside Slytherin. Since Morgana, Perry, and Adrian had made it clear they wanted nothing more to do with the underclassmen’s ‘mad schemes,’ they decided they would have to ask Dave, Alex, and Nora if they needed more help. Mary, however was rather reluctant to call on her patron privilege, especially if it was to involve them in anything that could be dangerous, so they decided to hold off on that until they had a plan.

Coming up with a plan was taking considerably longer, largely in part because they could not think of anything short of actually _killing_ Thorpe that would exempt him from playing in Wood’s eyes.

“What if we hide under the cloak and send a bone-breaker at his leg?” Lilian suggested as they made their way to lunch.

Mary shook her head. “Do you even _know_ that curse? Besides, Pomfrey would have him back on the pitch in an hour, and even if she didn’t, Wood would probably make him fly anyway.” Mary still hadn’t forgotten that the mad Gryffindor Captain had refused to allow an equipment substitution when she was being attacked by that rogue bludger in her first match. “And Maia still has the cloak.”

“Kidnap him?”

“The professors would be bound to find him.”

“We could dump him in the Chamber of Secrets.”

Mary shuddered. No. Just no. “I’m _not_ going back down there if I can help it.”

“Oi! Potter!” a fourth-year girl called as they approached the table.

“Turner?”

“We just got out of Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall wants to see you ASAP.”

“Oh. Did she say why?”

“No, just that you should come to her office, because she has marking to do over lunch.”

“Wait – the Head of Gryffindor wants to talk to the Slytherin Seeker right before the first match?” Chess butted in. “Sounds suspicious to me.”

“Seriously? She _is_ also my guardian, Chess.”

“What do you care, anyway?” Snark asked sharply. “You _quit_ the team, in case you don’t remember.”

“I’m still a Slytherin, troll-brain. And as a prefect it’s my duty to ‘look out for any potential foul play that could disrupt our attempt on the House Cup, especially in this, Oliver Wood’s final year – he’s desperate, and desperate men do crazy things,’” (That had the ring of a Flint quote if ever Mary had heard one.) “…like ask their Head of House to find some trumped up excuse to give the Slytherin Seeker detention all Saturday.”

“Merlin and Morgan! The whole house has gone insane!” the Seeker protested. The Professor was a Quidditch fiend – that was well known to all the houses – but she was also the straightest-laced person Mary had ever met, _including_ Aunt Petunia. There was no _way_ she would condone that sort of cheating.

Lilian just sniggered. “Did Flint put you up to this?”

Chess nodded, rolling his eyes. “It’s still a bit suspicious though.”

“No, it’s not,” Mary insisted, grabbing a sandwich to eat on the way. “Lils, I’ll see you in class, yeah?”

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

Ten minutes later, she was forced to eat her un-verbalized objections. She stood gaping before her guardian for a long minute before she finally managed to say, “Did Wood put you up to this?”

“Wood? What on Earth are you talking about? The match is a genuine safety concern – and _practices_ …”

“What do you think Black’s going to do? Take a running leap at me from the stands?!”

“Brooms can be cursed, Mary, as I believe you well know.”

“Yes, but –”

“But me no buts, missy!”

“You seriously think that Sirius Black could _sneak into the stands_ and curse my broom, without anyone noticing? With the whole school watching?”

“Easily. He admitted to _confunding_ the Slytherin Seeker in his fourth year. The boy was in hospital for three days with a cracked cervical vertebra after flying headlong into a goal post. And that was _his own brother_ , whom he was _not_ trying to kill!”

“He doesn’t even have a wand!”

“Do you know how easy it is to steal a wand in a crowd of students?”

“I reckon it’s pretty difficult, actually, when everybody knows what you look like, and would be running the other way,” Mary insisted stubbornly.

There was a dry chuckle from the doorway. “She _does_ have a point, Minerva.”

“Professor Snape! She wants me to not fly the match! You have to tell her it’s safe!” Mary insisted, then added belatedly, “Um. Sir.”

“I do certainly think that we professors could manage to apprehend the criminal if he dares show his face so publically,” he said reasonably.

“Severus! You cannot be suggesting we use Mary Potter as _bait_ for Sirius Black!”

“I don’t think he’s after me at all,” Mary pouted. “He went up to _Gryffindor_ tower, not to Slytherin.”

The adults ignored her. “Of course not, Minerva. I have not offered you a lemon drop today, have I? The fact remains, however, that the safest place for Miss Potter is neither locked up in the castle, which Black _has_ only just proved he is capable of infiltrating, while everyone else is away, nor anonymously in the stands, but with every eye in the school upon her. Black might be dementor-addled enough to make an attempt to reach her under such conditions, but he surely could not hope to succeed.”

“And what about practices? Out on the pitch with no adult supervision, a bloody sitting duck for anything he might attempt!” Professor McGonagall hissed.

Snape just raised an eyebrow at the Professor. “I have every confidence in my Slytherins’ abilities to protect each other against a lone madman. The seventh-years in particular are very protective of Miss Potter. And of age.”

“You truly think Flint and Warrington will be sufficient deterrence? He killed _thirteen people_ with _one curse_ , Severus!”

“He killed twelve _muggles_ and _one_ wizard who barely scraped a NEWT in Defense by _blowing up a street._ Not exactly _subtle_. Beside which fact, two on one was the upper limit of his dueling abilities, and that was _before_ spending a decade rotting in Azkaban. If it will assuage your concerns, I am certain that several other NEWT students could be convinced to guard the Slytherin practices.”

“Mary’s safety is _our_ responsibility, Severus! Not the other students’!”

“ _That_ is the sort of paternalistic hand-holding that results in graduates too weak to defend themselves in the outside world! She’s thirteen. You can’t keep her under your paw forever.”

“So you would throw all your children to the wolves at thirteen?”

“To the _wolves_? Never!” The Professor looked slightly taken aback by the vehemence of Snape’s response. “But I _would_ acknowledge that _they are no longer children_. In two years, they reach the age of consent. In four, their majority! Is it not better to observe the age of recognition, and _prepare_ them for the challenges of adulthood than to throw them into the deep end, as so many of my generation were? In case you have forgotten, sixteen of my year died within two months of graduation, Minerva! _Sixteen._ ”

“I know that, Severus! I lived through those years as well! But we are not at war, now,” Professor McGonagall objected, equally heatedly. “There is a difference between preparing students to make adult decisions, and telling them it is their responsibility to protect their fellow students.”

The Head of Slytherin gave a magnificent sneer. “And you call yourself a Gryffindor!”

“You know what I meant!” the Professor blustered. “You can’t make them think it’s all on them! They’re children! Even the bravest child is no match for -”

“No match for what, Minerva?” Snape interrupted seamlessly, his tone once again coldly controlled. “Possession? A basilisk? The Dark Lord’s wraith? A troll? A manticore? A dragon? The acromantula colony in the Forest? Students have faced all of those in the past two years! Or perhaps the more mundane dangers that lurk within these halls – Bullies? Kidnapping? Predatory teachers? You may recall that there are students yet to graduate who were assaulted by Maccabee in ’87. We may not be at war, but that is no excuse to wrap our students in cotton wool or teach them to do anything _other_ than look out for themselves.”

“Perhaps we have not done as well as we could have, but that is no reason to do anything less now than we can to keep Black away from Mary!”

“ _We_ are teachers, Minerva, not bodyguards or baby-sitters. What would you have us do? Let her lurk in the corners of our classrooms all day whilst we go about our business? Escort her to classes and otherwise keep her behind the wards of the Slytherin Common Room at all times? Or better yet, we could all barricade ourselves in the Chamber of Secrets until the incompetents employed by the ministry succeed in re-capturing their precious escapee.”

“You swore you would protect her!”

“I did not swear to _mollycoddle_ her, nor any other student! As the girl’s Head of House –”

“ _I am her guardian, Severus!_ ” the Professor interrupted. “I know what Black is capable of! It’s not _safe_!”

“Do not speak to _me_ of the things of which _Black_ is capable, _Professor McGonagall_ ,” Snape bit out. “ _As_ I was saying, as the Head of Slytherin, I take Miss Potter’s safety as seriously as any of my other students. There is no evidence that Black is seeking out Miss Potter at all. As she _quite rightly_ mentioned, Black did not attack the _dungeons_. Perhaps it is your own students for whom you ought to be concerned.”

“Anyone would have expected James and Lily’s child –” the Head of Gryffindor blustered, but she had gone pale at Snape’s use of her title, and had not fully recovered her previous steam.

“Don’t be absurd! After the past two years, more people, including the Prophet, refer to her as the Heir of Slytherin than the Girl Who Lived. There is absolutely _no_ chance that Black is unaware of Miss Potter’s house affiliation.”

The Professor finally faltered. “Then… you truly think he could be after anyone?”

Snape rolled his eyes. “After twelve years of dementor exposure, I would be unsurprised if he is suffering under some delusion, lost in newly-available memories of what _he_ doubtless recalls as better days gone by. In any case, I do not believe Miss Potter to be in any more or less danger than any of her peers. Nor do I believe that she will be in any greater danger on the Pitch than in the Castle.”

Mary’s Head of House raised a sardonic brow at her guardian as he waited for her to process their argument. She held her breath in anticipation.

“Fine!” Professor McGonagall snapped at long last. “But I want at least four seventh-years at all practices!”

Snape sighed dramatically. “If that is what it takes, Minerva, then so be it.”

“It is!” she insisted.

“Quite. Miss Potter?”

“Yes?” Mary startled. It had been several minutes since either of the professors had acknowledged her directly. From the slight flush on the Professor’s face, she might have completely forgotten she was there, though Snape’s small smirk suggested that he hadn’t.

“Inform Captain Flint of the necessary accommodations, and ask him to call upon me at my office directly before dinner.”

“Yes, sir,” she looked hesitantly between the two professors. “Um… Can I go, then?”

Professor McGonagall sighed. “I suppose. I shall expect you on Sunday for our usual meeting.”

“Yes, professor.”

Snape nodded his dismissal. As she fled the still-tense office, she heard him say, “Now, before we wasted nearly ten minutes of my precious time discussing that asinine ex-member of your illustrious house, I had _intended_ to speak to you regarding my previous petition for additional core faculty…”

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

Mary reached the Great Hall just in time to relay Snape’s message to Flint and accompany Lilian to the library.

“What did McGonagall want?” she asked, as soon as they had cleared the crowd of classroom-bound students.

Mary flushed slightly. “She wanted to stop me from playing on Saturday.” She paused, waiting for Lilian to get her rant about Chess being right out of the way, then continued: “I really don’t think she was thinking of Quidditch, though. She was worried Black might attack and curse my broom at practice or something.”

“But you convinced her to let you play, right? I saw you talking to Flint – you haven’t been banned, have you?”

“No, I haven’t. Snape showed up and convinced her that I wasn’t in any more danger than anyone else. He seems to think Black’s not after me. But I don’t know if he was just saying that for McGonagall’s sake. Anyway, that’s not the important thing.”

“What is, then?” Lilian asked, surprised, no doubt, by her placing anything in importance over Black.

“McGonagall reminded me, and I just realized, when I said about cursing my broom – remember in first year, when Quirrellmort put me in hospital during flying practice?”

“Well, yeah, now that you mention it, but what about it?”

“Pomfrey told me that she’d have to keep me a full day and night for observation, regardless of whether I was actually hurt, due to magical exhaustion.”

“So what?”

“So, we just need to find a way to make Thorpe magically exhausted, and she’ll do our job for us!”

“Brilliant! But that’s the tricky part, isn’t it?” Lilian rolled her eyes.

Mary copied that gesture. “We still have until Friday to figure it out. We don’t need her to actually keep him through the match, really – any threat that she might, and Wood’s bound to go begging to change the line-up.”

“All right, all right. Good plan. No one crosses Pomfrey,” Lilian grinned. “The rest is just details.”

###  Friday, 5 November 1993

#### Hogwarts

The Friday before the Quidditch match got off to a great start: someone apparently decided to start celebrating Bonfire Night early by planting a load of Filibuster’s Fireworks in three tureens of porridge at the Slytherin table. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs hadn’t been pleased, getting caught in the blast of exploding breakfast, but Slytherin was _furious_. Not only were they covered in sticky oats, but there had been _shrapnel_. Two upperclassmen had to go to the hospital wing with ‘minor abrasions.’ The red-headed menaces were lucky it was _upperclassmen_. If it had been firsties or second-years, there would have been an all-out war in the Great Hall.

_~^v^~_

_ Friday 5 November: Breakfast _

_Lilian caught Mary’s look of wide-eyed panic and gave the smallest shake of her head. They had put the fireworks in the upperclassmen’s tureens specifically because they would be most irritated by the inconvenience – but they were also the best able to defend themselves from the steaming-hot mess. Only two had suffered from the unexpected flying shards of porcelain, while the rest of them were stopped by quick shield charms. They had chosen well, albeit for the wrong reasons. And it was far too late to turn back now._

_~v^v~_

Everyone was certain of the culprits, even if there was no evidence _and_ they vehemently denied it: no one else had their reputation for borderline dangerous pranks, and of _course_ they would deny it, since something had gone wrong. Slytherin was convinced that this was _doubtless_ a part of the escalation Flint had been warning them all about for weeks. Gryffindor was equally convinced that their beaters were simply denying all involvement to save themselves a detention the day of the match, which did not stop them from loudly and publically congratulating the Weasleys on a prank well played. Tensions were high as members of three houses made their way to their dorms to change, and one went off, laughing and chattering, to their first lesson of the day.

_~^v^~_

_ Wednesday 3 November: Evening _

_“You’re thinking about this all wrong,” Lilian said. “The best way to not get caught is to make it look like it’s all someone else’s fault.”_

_“So we, what, ask someone to do it who’s not on the Quidditch team? It can’t be Dave and Alex – everyone knows they’re mine.”_

_“Nah – think_ bigger _. We make it look like an_ accident – _and one that the_ Gryffindors _caused in the first place.”_

_~v^v~_

The discontent quickly escalated to minor hexes and jinxes. By lunch, two Gryffindors had been sent to the hospital wing as well, evening the score, but Fred and George had managed to convince nearly half of their house that they hadn’t started this latest flare-up of the feud. Four different fights broke out in the corridors between afternoon classes.

_~^v^~_

_ Wednesday 3 November: Evening _

_“How the hell are we supposed to do that?”_

_“Well, we’ve got his schedule, we know where he needs to be, and when he’s going to be there, we just need someone to ‘accidentally’ push him over the edge.”_

_“Who? And how?”_

_“I think we need to start a war.”_

_~v^v~_

When the last class of the day let out, a handful of fourth-year Gryffindors, heading directly to dinner from Astronomy, and third-year Slytherins returning from the library found themselves waiting impatiently for the third-floor shifting stair to return to its landing.

“Hey, you,” a young voice called from behind them. “Yeah, you, the Gryffindor git with the stupid hair!”

A Gryffindor whose hair had been cursed with polka-dots earlier in the day whirled around and sent a stinging hex without looking. Alex was grinning at him, and holding out an un-threatening quill, as though to return it. He was _still_ holding the quill when his face started swelling and he burst into very convincing screams of pain. Dave was hovering over him, wand out, but he couldn’t manage quite a strong enough _finite_ to help his friend.

_~^v^~_

_ Thursday 4 November: Evening _

_“Hey,” Mary said, falling into her favorite armchair beside Blaise. “Do you lot have plans for the last free tomorrow?"_

_“Just homework,” the boy answered. “Why?”_

_“What would it take to get you to help me with my Arithmancy?”_

_“Charms!” Theo said immediately. “I still can’t get the bloody dancing teacup spell to work!”_

_“Great. I’ll meet you in the library, then?”_

_“Sounds good,” the boys answered in tandem._

_~v^v~_

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was Blaise who attacked the Gryffindor contingent first, as Mary ran to relieve the hex on the first-year’s face. The Gryffindors retaliated against Blaise, but he clearly already had some dueling training, dodging two of their spells and shielding against the others while Theo leapt to his defense.

“You fucking _arseholes_!” Mary shouted at the Gryffindors. “You just cursed an unarmed first-year!”

The Gryffindors turned as one, distracted. Right on cue, Lilian, hiding in a nook on the other side of the stairwell, behind a suit of armor under the Impressionist Camouflage Charm, cast a Summoning Charm on Thorpe’s robes, effectively giving them a sharp tug.

He screamed as he fell, and didn’t stop after the sickening thud that signaled his impact with the floor at the bottom of the stairwell.

_Oh, good,_ Mary thought _. We didn’t kill him._

_~^v^~_

_ Tuesday 2 November: Evening _

_“So how do you magically exhaust someone?” Lilian asked, as they settled in to plan in earnest._

_“Well, I figure I fell from about forty feet, and that completely knocked me out.”_

_“Hmmm… well, I suppose we could shove him off a staircase.”_

_“That might be slightly too direct…”_

_~v^v~_

“Cad!” one of the Gryffindor girls shrieked, nearly throwing herself off the open edge of the landing as well.

“Jessie!” Polka Dots snapped, grabbing her arm as the stairs finally completed their slow crawl back up from the ground floor. “Cad! Hang on, mate! We’re coming!”

The Gryffindors took off running, with a few final threats thrown over their shoulders at the Slytherins, who followed at a more sedate pace. By the time they reached the ground floor, a circle of curious observers completely concealed Thorpe, and Prefect Weasley was bustling through the crowd, insisting that the boy be taken to the hospital wing. Wood was shouting hysterically about how this was all Slytherin’s fault.

Flint sidled up beside Mary, Blaise and Theo, smirking at the commotion. He nodded at Mary as he wandered away again, which she took to be the closest thing to a public acknowledgement she was likely to get. That was fine with her: she stayed and watched as Weasley levitated his House’s seeker back up the stairs toward the Hospital Wing, feeling more than a bit ill at the sight of the pain she had caused.

She made a mental note _never_ to owe Flint another favor.

_~^v^~_

_ Friday 5 November: Morning, very early _

_“Are you sure about this?” Mary asked Lilian, as they prepared to set their plan in motion. “I mean, with your brother…”_

_The older girl shrugged, eyes momentarily shadowed. “Connor… he was unlucky. The way he landed, the rock, and the accidental magic… no. It’s different. Thorpe’s fourteen, and a seeker. He has to have taken worse falls in practice. He’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. The whole plan will be fine. Don’t worry about it. Come on, we need to hurry if we don’t want to be spotted.”_

_She turned on her heel and left the common room. Mary worried anyway._

_~v^v~_

“I hear Thorpe’s going to be in hospital all weekend,” Blaise said, joining the girls in the common room after dinner. “Chesterfield says he overheard McGonagall talking to Sprout about switching the match tomorrow.”

“Is he all right?” Mary asked, wide-eyed. She felt Lilian hold her breath beside her.

“Shattered his left ankle and cracked his pelvis,” Theo noted. “Nothing skelegrow can’t fix.”

Mary winced, but Lilian gave a sigh of relief beside her.

“The Gryffindors didn’t tell anyone we were fighting,” Theo added.

“I’d be surprised if they did,” Mary said tartly. “Seeing as they started it, hexing a firstie unprovoked.”

Blaise smirked and leaned in, whispering: “Next time you want our help with something, _ask_.”

“No idea what you’re talking about, Blaise,” Lilian said with a tiny nod.

Blaise winked. “We’ll call it even, this time, then.”

“See you around,” Theo added. “Thanks for the help with the Charms homework.”

When they left, Mary turned, very seriously, to her best friend and cast _muffliato._ “We’re never doing anything like this again. Ever.”

Lilian nodded fervently. “When I watched him fall, all I could think was, oh, gods, I’m so sorry.”

“He’ll be fine. But never again.”

Lilian squeezed her hand tightly before taking a few deep breaths and fixing a mask of indifference in place. “I just hope it was worth it.”

Just before curfew, Flint called the Quidditch team together for one final meeting, where he gave them a positively diabolical grin and passed around a note from their Head of House:

_Capt. Flint,_

_Due to the unfortunate accident suffered by their seeker earlier today, Prof. McGonagall has petitioned to switch places in the official line-up with Hufflepuff. In the interests of fair play, I have acceded to her request. I trust this does not unduly impact your strategy for the morning’s match._

_Prof. Snape_

###  Saturday, 6 November 1993

#### Quidditch Pitch

Mary peered out of the Slytherin locker room miserably, ten minutes before the match was due to start. The weather was likewise miserable. They were in the midst of yet another lightning storm, this one so strong that she had woken to peals of thunder audible even in the second dungeon-level. Mary couldn’t help but wonder if they would have been better off finding some way for _them_ to get out of this match, rather than Gryffindor, but it was far too late now.

“Potter!” Flint shouted, his foghorn voice nearly lost in the pounding of the rain on the tiled roof. “Stop looking at the pretty lights and get your arse over here so I can charm your lenses!”

That was the only good thing about this being an actual match day: she was never allowed to practice with water-repelling charms on her glasses, for the sake of ‘conditioning,’ but Flint would take any advantage on a game day. When Mary’s glasses, along with everybody’s robes, had the best _Impervius_ Charms the seventh-years could manage, Flint called them together for the traditional pre-match ‘pep-talk’: “Listen up, you fucking wankers! We are the best this school has to offer! You know it! I know it! Now let’s go out there and make sure everybody else knows it, too!”

He had a few words of advice for each of them as they filed out onto the pitch, but it was nothing they hadn’t heard before in practice. Mary tuned him out in favor of her own pre-match ritual – Malfoy shouting luck to her over the sound of the crowd cheering their entrance, just so she could shout “Skill, not luck,” back at him.

They shared a smirk as they mounted up, already cold and wet, as rain seeped through their hair, but not nearly as bad off as the Hufflepuffs – clearly they hadn’t thought to charm their own robes against the rain. Diggory smiled at Flint as the captains shook hands. From where she was standing, Mary couldn’t see Flint’s response, but it hardly mattered. With a shrill and distant-sounding whistle, they were off.

The winds were obnoxious, swirling around within the filled stands at ring-height instead of gusting straight through, like they did when there were no spectators present, and blowing Mary continually off course. The rain managed to find its way down the back of her robes within five minutes, and her fingers were quickly transfiguring themselves into ice on her broom handle. It was obvious that she could barely keep on-target in the plays, and equally clear that Hufflepuff had put some thought into how to deal with Slytherin’s integrated-seeker style.

To put it simply: the fact that no one could see more than a few feet in front of themselves meant that the Hufflepuffs were free to cobb and blatch and blurt her into conveniently-placed knees and beaters’ bats to their hearts’ content, and Madam Hooch was none the wiser. Slytherin was, of course, doing the same to the Hufflepuff chasers – they had probably done it _first_ , since their first set of plays had been strong-arm tactics (and for all Hufflepuffs could be real nightmares if crossed, they were hardly the sort to _start off_ cheating). But the Badger chasers were focusing on her, as the seeker (and, she thought, the smallest, lightest person on the pitch), while Diggory, who was their seeker as well as their captain, circled the action, looking for the snitch.

It was a dirty way to play, but she knew it was a page right out of their own book. Warbler and Flint often warned the younger players how brutal the sport could be, and they had roughed each other up badly in practice scrimmages, but this was the first time she personally hadn’t been able to see that sort of thing coming and escape. After what felt like ages being shoved around out of nowhere, Flint finally spotted her getting a particularly fierce elbow to the face (followed by a very insincere-sounding “Sorry!” from the yellow-robed arsewipe who threw it) and called a time-out.

“You okay, Potter?” he asked, as she tried to work a bit of feeling back into her fingertips, and wipe her bloody nose at the same time.

“Doo ayh _look_ oh-kay?” she responded nasally, to the amusement of the others.

Flint snorted. “Right, change of pace: We’re going untouchable. Alternate between the Three-Headed Wyvern, Eel-Weed, and Kitsune plays. Start with the Wisp, and we’ll switch plays whenever the three of us are within hand-signal distance. Malfoy, Bole, look to me for signals. Beaters, keep a heavy presence on Diggory – I want him too busy to call plays. Potter, feel free to harry him as well, but only if you think you can avoid the friendly fire.”

Mary nodded her assent along with everyone else. The Wisp was named for the will-o-the-wisp, and referred to a play where she would initially seem to have a fairly integral part in the chasers’ play, blocking the opposing chaser who was meant to be sitting on Malfoy, to make it look like either Bole or Flint was about to pass to him. Instead, they would pass to each other, when the other opposing chasers moved in to intercept. After that, she would be excused from the chaser action to actually look for the snitch like a traditional seeker. She wasn’t sure how much good that would do in this rain, but it certainly beat getting beaten up on her broom.

“Good. It’s half-past eleven. We’re three goals up. Let’s keep that lead, and bring it home. Break!”

The Slytherins kicked off again, Mary wondering how it was possible that they had only been in the air for half an hour.

It was growing darker, as the rain somehow grew heavier still. Lightning was striking closer and closer to the pitch. Mary was almost certain that the gasps and screams she heard below her were due to the storm, not the death-defying stunts of the Slytherin chasers’ Kitsune flips and passes. She hoped they were sticking to the Wyvern and Eel plays most of the time – the Nine-Tailed Fox had been designed by Envy Seran, which meant it was dangerously gymnastic in the best of conditions. It was named for the fact that each of the chasers had to move fast enough to seem like they were in three places at once. Their quick turns, back-passes and flips were very, very difficult to follow and block, but equally difficult to pull off, especially in low-visibility.

Flying the traditional seeker’s role was boring, and seemed absolutely useless, given the fact that she _still_ couldn’t see more than a few meters in any given direction. She did spend some time trailing after Diggory, and nearly caught him in a Wronsky Feint, but he clearly realized that there was no way she could have seen the snitch so far away in this weather, and stopped halfway through his dive. After that, he seemed more than happy to ignore her, in favor of trying to get close enough to his team to direct them. The Slytherin beaters were doing a very good job, though. Eventually Madam Hooch called a time out on his behalf, as two brownish-yellow figures collided and fell to earth.

By that time, the Water-Repelling Charms were starting to wear off, Mary’s robes growing heavy and weighing her down (in addition to being practically frozen from zipping around in the rain, which she was almost used to by now). That meant, as best she could figure, they had to have been in the air for at _least_ four hours.

They huddled together under an _engorgio’d_ umbrella with the reserves, who had somehow acquired towels and hot water bottles. There was no sign of Lilian, who must have gone in for detention already. Mary wrung the water from her braid, and amused herself by poking the mostly-dry, and slightly warmer Blake in the neck with her icy fingers.

“Fucking hell, Blitz!” he screeched.

Higgs laughed. “Here, hold this.” He passed over a bottle, which practically _burned_ in the seeker’s cold hands.

“I don’t suppose any of you thought to sneak in a wand, eh?” Sadie groused, trying to shake the mud from her landing off her boots. “I could do with a proper warming charm or six.”

“And risk disqualification?” her younger reserve asked. “Flint would kill us. I’ll go in for you, though, if you like.”

“Not a chance, pipsqueak.”

Blake pouted, though all the others seemed more than happy to stay under their shelter unless they were actually _needed_.

“Anything we need to discuss?” Flint asked, splashing down last as the Hufflepuffs circled on the other side of the field.

“I can’t manage another Kitsune,” Draco admitted. He looked even colder than Mary felt, and utterly exhausted. He peeled off his gloves and laid a blue-fingered hand on her water bottle with a wince. Higgs smirked and tossed him a towel.

“Oi, Greg, re-wrap my grip?” Snark ordered, passing his bat to the reserve beater and furiously massaging his right hand with his left, as though he had lost the feeling in it. Greg did as he was told without arguing, leaving Vinnie to hold the umbrella upright.

Flint nodded, ruddy-faced and seemingly invulnerable to the weather. “What time is it?”

“Quarter of four,” Podmore answered.

“We’re eleven goals up,” the captain announced for the non-chasers, who were too far from the action to really keep track, especially when they couldn’t hear the commentary. “We’ll switch to more defensive strategies: Golem, Old Man Oak, maybe throw a Kraken in if it looks like a safe bet. Blitz, catch the goddamn snitch so we can call it a day,” he ordered, before turning to examine Greg’s work.

“Easy for him to say,” Mary muttered to her fellow third-years as soon as his back was safely turned.

Vinnie clapped her on the shoulder with his free hand, but Draco nodded with false sympathy. “I’d say better you than me, but seeing as I’m stuck out there as well… catch the goddamn snitch Potter.”

“Can’t hack it, Malfoy?” Higgs asked with a challenging grin, which was parried by a request for Warbler to break one of Draco’s arms for him.

“I really think we ought to let Mini here have a go of it,” the youngest starting chaser insisted. “I will simply have to suffer the indignity of Madam Pomfrey’s attentions under this nice, warm, dry umbrella. It will be difficult, but I shall endure.” He held out an arm, dramatically looking away from it. “Go on, do it, I’m ready.”

“Shut the fuck up and get back on your broom, Malfoy,” Flint ordered him. “That goes for the rest of you as well – Hufflepuff’s back in the air.”

Warbler and Bole stomped back out into the mud immediately, while the younger contingent of starting players shared a groan, following more reluctantly. There was a new, mostly-dry Hufflepuff chaser, now, along with a rather angry-looking, mud-covered one. Mary made a mental note to ask what had happened to her later, when they were all back in the commons.

Back in flight, and feeling even colder for the respite, Mary decided to start flying spirals instead of tailing and harassing Diggory. There was no guarantee that either she _or_ the Hufflepuff would catch the snitch any time soon, but the chances that one of them would spot it increased dramatically when they weren’t in the same spot, and she was confident she could beat him in a race if he saw it first, even with the bloody turbulence, unless it showed up right in front of him. With a hundred-and-ten-point lead, that was a risk she was willing to take: they could make up forty points over the course of their other matches if he got it first.

The lightning was striking fast and furious, now, one clap of thunder hardly ending before the next rolled in. She dodged Diggory, a bludger, and the Hufflepuff beater streaking after it, turned sharply at the end of the pitch, and then froze, nearly throwing herself off her broom, as she saw the silhouette of an enormous, shaggy black dog clearly against the sky, motionless in the empty, topmost row of seats.

Was that the _Grim_? What on Earth was it doing in the stands?

But she blinked, and it was gone, and then there was the briefest of breaks in the rain, and another flash of lightning behind her, and a glint of gold – Where? – There! – Off to her right! She flattened herself on her broom, willing every ounce of speed out of it, eyes fixed on the target as it led her upward, and toward the center of the pitch. If she lost the snitch now, there was no telling when it would re-appear.

She hardly noticed the increasing chill, writing it off as a side-effect of her increased speed, or the eerie silence settling in, as the wind whipped past her ears. Then, suddenly, she realized that there was a feeling like ice _inside_ her chest, as well as all around her, and someone was screaming, a woman’s voice, inside her head, just like on the train:

_“Not Mary, not Mary, please not Mary!”_

_“Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside now…”_

_“Not Mary, please no, take me, kill me instead!”_

The world faded away around Mary, dissolving into swirling white mist.

_“Not Mary! Please… have mercy… have mercy…”_

There was a high, shrill laugh, and Mary was falling through white mist, and then she knew no more.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

“No, that’s what I said – that’s what ‘she called it’ _means_!” _Lilian?_ Mary thought muzzily.

“But Quidditch matches don’t get, like suspended, or whatever! It goes until one of them catches the snitch!” That sounded like… Dave? No, that didn’t make sense. Vinnie? Huh. She had never noticed how similar they sounded before.

“Well, so far as I know, a pitch has never been swarmed by a hundred dementors in the middle of a game before,” a more reasonable girl pointed out. _Hermione_. “Plus it _is_ only a Hogwarts match. It’s not exactly the World Cup.”

“Yeah, shut up, Crabbe. We’ll all be better off for the break, anyway, start fresh tomorrow, yeah?” Another girl, even more belligerent in her normal speaking tone than Lilian. _Sadie_.

“Just think of it as a really _long_ time out,” Hermione said.

Mary pried her eyes open with difficulty, recognizing the distinctive white ceiling and linen sheets of the Hospital Wing. “Wh’appened?”

“Oi, Crabbe – go run and tell Flint she’s come round!” Sadie ordered the boy, then added, “You took a header from mid-stands.” The stands started at the fifteen-meter mark, and went up to fifty meters. ‘Mid-stands’ was over a hundred feet. Mary suddenly felt very lucky to be alive.

“Totally distracted Diggory falling off like that – he lost the snitch, and Hooch suspended the game on account of Dementors. We have a rematch tomorrow,” Lilian added.

The seeker struggled to sit up and put on her glasses. Her wand was there too. Someone must have brought it from the locker room for her. “Oh. Okay. Um…”

“You _won’t_ be playing,” Sadie informed her, her tone brooking no argument. “First off, you broke your arm, three ribs, fractured four vertebral spines, and cracked your skull on landing, even with sinking about a foot into the mud. Pomfrey’s keeping you here at least until Monday. Secondly, your broom drifted off into the forest, and there’s no _way_ anyone’s going to be able to track it down in this weather. It’s probably gone for good.”

“Well… damn it!” Mary had really _liked_ that broom! And she’d only had it for a year! “But hey, Lils, that means you’re taking Draco’s spot, and he’s seeker, right?”

Lilian shrugged morosely. “I guess. Didn’t want it this way, though.”

“It’s just gone nine,” Hermione said quickly, changing the subject. “Pomfrey said we should feed you and make you take another sleeping draught. It’s lucky the ground was so soft. Your magic didn’t kick in to save you, what with the dementors.”

Lilian passed her a tray with sandwiches, a large chocolate bar, and a pitcher of water, which Mary, suddenly parched, drank greedily.

“Yeah,” Sadie added. “Like I told these two – Dumbledore tried to stop you falling, but even _arresto momentum_ can only do so much. Then he shot off a Patronus and chased the dementors away, mostly, though honestly, from where I was sitting, it looked like he was lucky not to have chased them into the stands. Thank the stars, a bunch of upperclassmen had the common sense to guard the stairs.”

Hermione interrupted to say, “Eat the chocolate – they gave it out at dinner to help with the dementor exposure.”

Mary did so, reveling in the sensation of warmth spreading throughout her body. It almost chased away the aches that seemed to have settled into every single one of her muscles and joints. Sadie continued as though there had been no interruption at all. “Then he conjured a stretcher for you and brought you in here, and Hooch suspended the game pending, you know, making certain that it’s not going to be overrun by Dementors again. The team’s been sending people in shifts to make sure someone was here when you woke up, but they all send their best wishes, and say to get well soon.”

“Thanks, Sadie,” the seeker said.

“No problem. Anyway, I’ll see you later, yeah?” she left without waiting for a response.

Mary sighed at the still-worried looks on both her friends’ faces. “So how was detention?”

Lilian snorted. “We can’t tell you anything about it. Snape was planning on having you sit yours tomorrow, but I don’t know if he can, since you’ll be here. Maybe he’ll give you lines, or something, to make it up?”

Hermione nodded. “That’s what I’d expect. Finish your sandwich, before Madam Pomfrey comes back.”

“Where is she, anyway? Usually she’s here as soon as I wake up.”

“Ah, well… Professor Snape and the rest of us didn’t find out until about half an hour ago that anything was wrong, after… you know,” Lilian admitted. “So he came up with me and Hermione, and got into… well, more than a bit of a row with Professor Lupin – he was here already, you see, and Madam Pomfrey more or less dragged them out to tell them off like they were still students themselves.”

“She told us to make sure you ate something, and then knock you back out. She wanted you to get at least another twelve hours of sleep,” Hermione fussed.

“Did they say anything interesting?” Mary asked. “There’s something going on with them, and I can’t figure out what.”

The Ravenclaw huffed. “Well you know how Snape –” “ _Professor_ Snape,” the Slytherins chorused automatically. “Yes, _him_. You know how he is. He said a lot of things that were very cryptic and gave away absolutely _nothing._ ”

“No offence, Maia, but you don’t exactly speak fluent Slytherin.”

Lilian chuckled as the older girl pouted. “No, it’s true. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it either. Just that they were enemies back in their school days, and I think you already knew that.”

“And Professor Lupin’s sick, I think,” Hermione said. “Remember how Snape –” “ _Professor_ Snape.” “Will you _stop_ that? I’ll start calling him Professor Phobetor, I swear I will!”

“Fine, fine, whatever,” the less-injured Slytherin agreed. “What were you saying?”

“What – oh! Snape kept referring to Professor Lupin’s ‘condition,’ as though he were ill, though admittedly that’s not exactly new information, either.”

“No,” Mary sighed, her head beginning to pound. “It’s not. Snape has to brew a potion for him. I’m not sure why.”

“You just came over all peaky,” Lilian noted.

“Headache.”

“Oh, here!” Hermione handed over a potions vial from the bedside table. “Take this, and go back to sleep. We should go back and tell everyone you’re okay, anyway.”

Mary knocked back the potion and mumbled something unintelligible before it overwhelmed her. The last thing that registered was Lilian patting her hand and saying ‘sleep well.’

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

The next morning, Madam Pomfrey was back, though she had little in the way of further intelligence on the Snape-Lupin situation to offer. Lilian stopped by before the rematch commenced, as did Professor McGonagall. Mary wished the former luck with her first official match, and feigned exhaustion when the latter began to twitter about how she had known that she oughtn’t to have let Mary play. It wasn’t as though _Black_ had been there.

Snape arrived shortly after lunch to offer her what seemed on the surface to be a rather absurdly easy choice: re-live the most traumatizing of her detentions (presumably through the use of some dark mind magic, since Mary was certain there was no way he could effectively re-create their first detention with only her) or sit there quietly, doing absolutely nothing, for eight hours, then be obliviated at the end of it. Since she was confined to her bed and resigned to being bored all afternoon _anyway_ , the latter choice seemed easy enough to make, though Snape raised an eyebrow suggesting he was surprised by her decision.

It was only later, when Snape appeared to tell her that she had served her make-up detention, and had voluntarily had her memory of it erased, that she recalled how unsettling it was to have a massive blank spot in her memories. She had no idea what she had been made to do, though it couldn’t have been anything _too_ strenuous, given that she was still in the hospital wing. She had no idea why she had chosen to let him obliviate her. The last thing, in fact, that she remembered, was Madam Pomfrey taking her lunch tray away. It was unpleasantly reminiscent of the outcome of the Chamber of Secrets debacle, and she found it _very_ difficult to get to sleep that night, knowing that she had _yet again_ allowed someone she wasn’t sure she fully trusted to meddle with her memories. _It must have seemed like a good idea at the time_ , she kept telling herself, but it didn’t really help.

Neither the knowledge that Lilian had scored her first official goal and Draco had caught the snitch for a 100-360 Slytherin win, nor the fact that she would be cleared to leave the Hospital Wing come morning were especially reassuring, either, though she was happy to hear both.

 


	18. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

###  Wednesday, 10 November 1993

#### DADA Classroom

Madam Pomfrey released Mary for classes on Monday with the caveat that she was not to attempt anything too strenuous for the remainder of the week, while her newly-healed bones continued to strengthen themselves. For the most part, she felt herself again, though she still had no idea what she had been thinking, allowing Snape to erase her memories of Sunday afternoon and early evening. Apparently that had included at least a few conversations, because Hermione appeared at the Slytherin table at lunch to clarify whether she had wanted more information about dementors in general, or just how to get rid of them.

Mary had no recollection of any such conversation, but thought that learning how to get rid of dementors sounded like a fantastic idea. Apparently the answer, or at least the one that Hermione had managed to find with minimal research in the non-restricted part of the library, was to learn to cast the Patronus Charm. The problem was, the charm was a NEWT level defensive spell. All of the NEWT students had covered it in their first two weeks of DADA, but most of them still couldn’t cast it properly.

The Ravenclaws who had mastered it had laughed derisively when Mary asked them whether they would be willing to teach her, telling her they had better things to do with their time than waste hours trying to teach NEWT material to thirteen-year-olds. The Slytherins she spoken to had been happy to do so… for a favor. Mary had told them that she would think about it, but that was a strategy of last resort: she had no desire whatsoever to have another favor hanging over her head when she had only just got free of the last one. So it was that Mary decided to stay behind after their Wednesday Defense lesson to ask Remus whether he had any ideas (or, failing that, whether he would teach them the spell himself). Lilian, her morbid curiosity recovered somewhat since Mabon, decided to tag along.

“Did you two want a closer look at the Kappa?” the professor asked as the last of the Hufflepuffs filed out.

“Not exactly,” Lilian answered, with her trademark cheeky grin. “Liz?”

Mary sighed. “We were wondering if you knew anything about dementors.”

“Is this about the Quidditch match?” Remus asked, taking a seat at his desk.

The girls nodded.

Now it was Remus’ turn to heave a sigh. “I see. And you want to know why they affect you so strongly?”

Mary was somewhat taken aback, which let Lilian have the next word: “Actually, we want to know how to get rid of them, but that’s a good question. Why _do_ they make Liz pass out?”

The professor massaged his temples gently, as though regretting having made the assumption. “What do you know about dementors?” he asked them, rather hesitantly.

“Nobody seems to know much about them,” Mary shrugged. “Except that the Patronus can get rid of them, but that’s NEWT Charms.” That wasn’t strictly speaking true – they hadn’t asked anyone else about anything other than how to fend them off, and Hermione hadn’t yet managed to find more information for them. Apparently all the books that talked about them in detail were hidden away in the Restricted Section.

“They make you re-live your worst memories, right?” Lilian asked with a shudder. Mary squeezed her hand tightly. “Like a boggart shows you your fears?”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking,” Remus said softly. “Dementors are among the foulest creatures to walk this Earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places. They glory in decay and despair. They drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them. Even muggles can feel their presence, though they can’t see them. Get too near a dementor, and every happy memory will be sucked out of you. If it can, the dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself – soulless and evil. You’ll be left with nothing but the worst experiences of your life. And the worst that happened to you, Mary, is more than enough to make anyone collapse. There’s nothing to feel ashamed of.”

“But…” Mary hesitated, unwilling to contradict the professor in front of another student, even if they were both her friends.

“But what?”

“But, well… it’s not that bad. They make me remember the Dark Lord killing my mother, but compared to, like, Luna, or Ginny Weasley, my worst memories aren’t _that_ bad. I didn’t even know what was happening at the time – I couldn’t see Thestrals until last year. And they didn’t pass out, like on the train.”

Remus shook his head slowly. “It’s not just… a matter of how bad the experience was at the time. They make you re-live points where everything in your life went wrong. The memories connected to the most sorrow or pain. And they can change as you subconsciously connect events. In your case, when your parents were killed, you were sent to live with Petunia and Vernon – that memory isn’t just about your parents dying, it’s the moment when you were doomed to live with that neglectful, spiteful family, and denied a childhood full of magic.”

“Oh.” Mary couldn’t really think of anything else to say to that.

Thankfully, Lilian seemed to realize this, and changed the subject. “Why did they show up at the match?”

Remus seemed just as eager to change the subject as Mary was. “They’re getting hungry,” he explained. “Dumbledore won’t let them into the school, so their supply of human prey has dried up. I don’t think they could resist the excitement around the Quidditch field. All that excitement, with emotions running high… it would be their idea of a feast.”

Both girls shivered. “But they’re kept out, now?” Lilian asked, doubtless thinking of the fact that they had played their re-match only a day after the swarm – and she hadn’t even seen it in person.

“Professor Dumbledore has reinforced the wards on the stands against them, and the Ministry sent a representative to clarify their orders: they are only to come to the grounds if they sense Black’s presence.”

“Is that going to be enough?” Mary asked.

Remus made a face. “That’s exactly what your Head of House asked.” Mary tried and failed to hide a proud smile. It was _always_ a compliment for a Slytherin to be compared to Snape, unless it was in regards to their appearance. “There’s also going to be a rotation,” the Defense professor admitted. “Sending the dementors back to Azkaban on a regular basis so they don’t get too… hungry.”

“I can’t believe they just let them feed on the prisoners,” the younger Slytherin groused. Personally, she thought she’d rather just be killed outright than left with a dementor for any length of time.

“Better them than us, Liz,” Lilian reminded her – this was the main argument for keeping prisoners at Azkaban, according to the articles that had run in the Prophet immediately after Black’s escape: if they didn’t, the dementors were liable to spread throughout the Isles looking for other prey. “Anyway, Professor, could you teach us to fend them off, just in case?”

“The Patronus Charm is the only one that works, unfortunately,” he responded, after the slightest hesitation. “And as you know, it is very advanced magic.”

“ _Please_?” Mary gave the professor her best puppy-dog eyes.

“Mary…”

“I can’t stay trapped in the castle forever, Remus! I have to at least _try_ to learn to defend myself! If you won’t teach me, I’ll ask one of the seventh-years.” She would, too. Even if it meant she had to owe them a favor. But she would ask Professor Flitwick, first, and maybe even Snape.

Whatever he saw on her face must have convinced him, because he capitulated with ill grace. “Oh, all right. But it’ll have to wait until next term. I’ve got a lot to do before the holidays, and I’ve business to attend to in France over the break.”

“Can I learn too?” Lilian asked excitedly.

Remus groaned. “I suppose. But neither of you are to attempt the spell unsupervised in the meanwhile.”

“Yes, sir,” the girls chorused, grinning.

“I’m serious! The Patronus is a very powerful spell, and there is every chance that you will exhaust yourselves badly in the attempt, possibly to the point that you cannot make it to the hospital wing.”

They nodded again, more solemnly, before Lilian asked, “What about Hermione?”

Mary rolled her eyes. If anyone was likely to exhaust themselves trying to learn NEWT magic, it was their Ravenclaw friend, but Lilian was right: she would want to learn anything they were learning.

“ _Fine_ , but just the three of you,” Remus insisted. “Don’t go telling everyone, either. It’ll be difficult enough with just you, and Madam Pomfrey will have my head if underclassmen start showing up in droves after reaching for magic beyond their grasp.”

“Thanks, Remus,” Mary said, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. It wasn’t much, but a promise that he would try to teach her was far, far better than nothing at all.

“Thank you, professor,” Lilian echoed, and Remus rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, now get going, before my next class shows up, eh?”

The girls took off giggling and debating how to tell Hermione that they had signed her up for more lessons. It hardly mattered: she was bound to be excited, either way.

###  Friday, 12 November 1993

#### Great Hall

“Don’t tell anyone,” Tracey announced at breakfast a few days later, “but I heard the Board of Governors is holding a vote on Monday for new standards for professors starting next term.”

It escaped nobody’s notice that she made this announcement loud enough for the Hufflepuffs to overhear. The whole school would know about it by dinner. Mary nearly dropped her fork in surprise. She had lost track of the state of the Binns and Hagrid petitions while distracted by Quidditch Drama and subsequent Dementor Problems.

“Where did you hear _that_?” Daphne asked skeptically, as Draco pouted, and deliberately started a very loud conversation with Vinnie and Greg about Quidditch practice. He was still sore that his father had been chucked out of the Board at the end of the year prior.

“I had it from Brown, who overheard Longbottom telling the Little Weasel,” the gossip explained defensively.

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Of course. Zimmerman, Smith, _and_ Diggory on the board, and it’s _Longbottom_ who can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“So you already knew, too?” Blaise asked, poking her in the ribs. She flinched with an _eep_ and smacked at his hand. Mary was glad to see they had made up their little tiff, though she still had no idea what they had been fighting over.

“Of course I did. Who do you think keeps daddy appraised of the atmosphere among the student body? Since the Hufflepuffs haven’t been up in arms, I suppose they’ve all been told to keep it quiet as well.” She glared at Tracey, who shrugged unrepentantly.

“So what’s going on?” Lilian asked eagerly.

“ _Well_ ,” Daphne said, with an air of supreme satisfaction, as even some of the older students leaned in to hear her analysis. “I suppose I can tell you, now that the kneazle’s loose. From what I’ve gathered, and from what Prefect Chesterfield has said, it _sounds_ like Madam Marchbanks is likely to vote aye, because she’s been complaining about falling standards in History and DADA for years; my father and Mr. Chesterfield are both of the mind that we need new blood in History, so they, along with their bloc, Grey and Fawley, will also be voting aye, so that’s the Ravenclaw and Slytherin chairs. Madam Longbottom is the last Slytherin vote, and she’s introducing the proposal. She’s generally pro-Dumbledore, but she’s been saying the board ought to have some control over the DADA appointment since the seventies – her son was an Auror, so she thinks Defense is very important.

“For Gryffindor, Fawley’s in the bloc, and Price is anti-halfbreed, so Draco, Lilian, you two got him with your Hagrid petition. Diggory of Gryffindor and Zimmerman of Ravenclaw tend to be pro-Dumbledore, so they’ll probably vote nay, but they’ll be outweighed in both of their chairs.

“The real question is Hufflepuff: Hopkirk has been very anti-Dumbledore forever, so he’ll also vote aye, and of course Smith is so ridiculously hide-bound he’ll vote nay because he thinks Binns is an institution. Pierce owes my father and the bloc for her appointment, so she ought to go aye and give us the Hufflepuff chair, but there’s no guarantee she’ll follow through on that. But if we get all three of the other chairs, it will pass regardless.”

“How does voting work, again?” Theo asked. Mary was glad he did – she was rather confused herself.

Daphne rolled her eyes. “There are twelve seats: four chairs with three seats each. The chairs are named after the Founders, and each chair gets one final vote. Each seat gets a preliminary vote, which helps to determine the final chair vote. If it comes down to two chairs against the other two, it’s decided by simple majority of the preliminary votes. If the votes are completely evenly distributed, the Headmaster gets a tie-breaker vote.”

“That sounds unnecessarily complicated,” Lilian observed.

The heiress shrugged. “It’s more complicated to change a governor. When Malfoy was kicked out, I think Smith and Hopkirk eventually had to abstain because they couldn’t settle on a replacement candidate, so they needed at least two chairs _and_ a simple majority to vote in Pierce.”

Draco’s ‘I’m not listening to you’ conversation increased substantially in volume when Daphne brought up his father. Mary smirked, and wondered briefly if she should have been taking notes. “So what happens after the vote?”

“Officially, they form a committee to discuss the new measures they want to institute, but unofficially, they’ve been throwing basic requirements around since Camille was here.”

(“Camille?” Alex asked.)

(“Her older sister,” Blaise stage-whispered across the table, to the younger boys’ amusement.)

“Daddy says this is the first time there’s been enough public support that they wouldn’t have faced severe consequences in the Wizengamot for acting against Dumbledore,” Daphne continued, ignoring the by-play. “He’s not supposed to have that much influence over them, but he’s well-known for using one body to influence the other. Anyway, they’ll most likely propose and vote on each specific measure, and hopefully have something hashed out either this Monday, or in two weeks.”

“If Dumbledore’s smart, he’s already looking for History, Creatures, and Divination professors to take over after Yule,” Tracey opined with a rather sharp grin.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Daphne concurred.

“Excellent,” Hermione said brightly, nodding at the news. The entire knot of Slytherins turned their attention to her. She looked around at them, momentarily flustered, before saying, “What? It’s about time we got some fresh blood in the History classroom.”

“Don’t you mean in the History professor?” Lilian snarked, and the Slytherins sniggered appreciatively.

“Quite.” The Ravenclaw’s smirk was almost worthy of the snakes. “Lizzie, could I talk to you for a minute?”

Mary blinked a couple of times in surprise, looking wistfully at her half-finished bowl, and wondering if curiosity was worth foregoing the remainder of her porridge. “What about?” she asked, standing up reluctantly. Her housemates’ attention quickly devolved. Even Lilian was drawn into a conversation with Pansy, rather than eavesdrop on them.

Hermione sighed. “It’s about the MSA.” She must have seen Mary’s face grow grim, because she quickly added, “I know you don’t want to give up the Dueling Club, and that was right – I shouldn’t have asked you to – you have a responsibility as one of the founders to go to that. I just wanted to let you know that a lot of the others wanted to go, too, so we’ve re-scheduled the MSA so it doesn’t conflict. The next meeting will be tomorrow evening, instead of Sunday.”

Now it was Mary’s turn to sigh. “Look, Hermione,” she started, trying to keep the whining tone from her voice and eyeing the other Slytherins warily. She was certain that if she or Hermione said anything too interesting, they would abandon their own conversations in a heartbeat, and she truly did not care to discuss her actual reasons to avoid the MSA in public any more now than she had the month before. “We talked about this. I thought you _understood_. It’s not just the scheduling conflict.”

The older girl glowered. “I wish you’d just give it another try. It’s not all like the first meeting, you know.”

“It doesn’t matter, Maia. I just – I don’t have time, okay? Just drop it.”

Hermione hesitated. For a long moment, Mary thought she might finally have extricated herself from the awkwardness that was the Muggleborns’ club without isolating herself from Hermione yet again. But then Tracey _bloody_ Davis had to open her powers-bedamned mouth.

“Will you still be attending Daphne’s little get-together on Sunday? She was ever so excited that you agreed to attend again,” the dark girl smirked viciously. Was she actively _trying_ to drive a wedge between Mary and Hermione? Mary could hardly believe the nerve of that bitch!

“What’s on Sunday?” the Ravenclaw asked suspiciously.

Tracey put on a look of affected innocence. “It’s a rather private affair, with a somewhat… selective guest list. For the right people, you see…”

“It’s a tea party,” Mary scoffed, “for Daphne’s little clique,” but the damage was already done.

There was genuine hurt in Hermione’s tone as she blustered, “Oh, I see how it is! You have time to hang about all afternoon sipping tea and talking about boys and beauty spells with a bunch of air-headed purebloods and half-blood wanna-bes, but not to spend one measly hour with the muggleborns discussing things that actually matter! You don’t even _like_ tea!”

Before Mary could think of a response (unreasonably thrown by the fact that she still did _not_ like tea, despite years of attempting to accustom herself to the flavor, and a general unwillingness to discuss the political ramifications of her decision not to alienate Daphne in the middle of the Great Hall), Hermione turned on her heel and left. Even then, all she could think was that it had been nice being on good terms with the older girl again while it had lasted.

Well, that _and_ that she was incredibly pissed off at her fellow Slytherin. “Count your blessings for Rule One, Davis,” she snarled at the other witch, before abandoning the table as well. She would have to try to come up with an appropriate retaliation for her interference, but in the meantime, making it clear to the rest of the House that they were no longer on first-name terms (when she had been on first-name terms with all of the girls in her year for ages, even if she didn’t much appreciate their company) would have to do.

###  Sunday, 21 November 1993

#### Great Hall

Mary ducked under a bright red Disarming charm and pivoted quickly to avoid a series of quick stunners, throwing off her aim and causing her own _expelliarmus_ to go wide. It was close enough, though, that Lisa Turpin, her current opponent, switched to the defensive, casting a rather weak and wavering shield charm. It broke on the third _stupefy,_ and Lisa dodged the wrong direction with a mouse-like _eep_ , diving straight into the fourth.

Mary sat at the edge of the stage, breathing rather hard, as Ernie Macmillan revived Lisa and checked to make sure she hadn’t hit her head when she collapsed. When he was assured that the Ravenclaw was well, he escorted her to sit beside Mary.

“Good match, Turpin!” she said brightly.

Lisa rolled her eyes. “I got _stunned_.”

“Yeah, but you had her on the run for nearly five minutes,” the little Weasel pointed out. He had been keeping time, as the two girls danced around each other, while Lilian and Neville Longbottom marked down the points for each defensive and offensive spell.

“How’d we do?” she asked them, trying to peer over Lilian’s shoulder.

“Well, you won, right?” Lisa grumbled.

“Mary had two more offensive spells,” Neville noted, comparing his tallies to Lilian’s. “But Lisa actually engaged and deflected seven more than Mary, so that puts you one point ahead, Lisa, just behind Macmillan. Mary, you lose one, so you’re tied with me for last place now.”

Lisa looked rather pleased at this, though it was all Mary could do not to mutter under her breath about how stupid Nym’s Game was. Professor Flitwick had apparently introduced this game at the end of the last meeting. Mary assumed that it was intended to keep things interesting despite the fact that they were still restricted to three spells. Mostly it was just frustrating: she had won every one of her duels so far, by the classic measure of still having her wand and not getting stunned, but she was losing terribly at Nym’s.

The rules were pretty simple: everyone in the group started at zero. Whenever a pair fought, the judges would tally how many ‘strikes’ and ‘engagements’ each duelist made and compare them, figuring the difference. Strikes, or offensive spells that actually came within a shield-radius of the target, were worth three engagements or blocks at the end, and then the absolute difference in spells cast was translated into points: the person with the point-deficit at the end lost those points to the winner. Mary had cast two more strikes than Lisa, but the other girl had deflected seven more spells with shields, so she was still one ahead when the math was said and done, hence the one transferred point.

Mary was now at negative six.

The main problem was that she was too inclined to just dodge everything she could, and send as many offensive spells as possible in the meanwhile. This seemed to be a good strategy for the older students, but her aim wasn’t as good when she was dodging, so many of her additional attempted strikes had gone wide. Then again, the one time she had tried intercepting everything she could, Weasley had trapped her on the defensive. She had disarmed him eventually, but lost four points along the way (which was part of the reason he was currently in the lead).

“Does that mean you and I have to go now?” she asked Neville, who was scribbling something on a tally-sheet.

“Um… no. You just went twice in a row, so we can wait a round if you want. Which makes the next-closest pair… Lisa and Lilian. And Ron, Ernie, it’s your turn to keep score.” Weasley grumbled a bit about being far enough in the lead that he didn’t get to actually _duel_ , but took Neville’s tally-book. Personally, Mary thought he should just shut his face, but seeing as she had disarmed him and Macmillan had stunned him, he probably did need more practice. She guessed that most people won their duels when they won points in Nym’s Game, but that didn’t seem to be how it was working out for their group.

Professor Flitwick had assigned students to practice groups during the last meeting, while she had been in the hospital wing (and detention… simultaneously), supposedly by skill level. Mary suspected that some thought had also been given to mixing the houses, as she and Lilian had been assigned to a group with a Ravenclaw, a Hufflepuff, and two Gryffindors. The rest of their year had been split into four other groups: one clearly less-adept at spellcasting and two which obviously had more experience dueling, but all of which were equally integrated as far as houses went. The last seemed to be at about the same level as the one Mary had been assigned to “based on the facility you’ve shown in your Charms lessons, Miss Potter!” but had already had an even number of students.

Mary didn’t mind; she was happy to be in the same group as Lilian, though she wished Hermione had come as well. It had been over a week, and the Ravenclaw still wasn’t speaking to her. It was impossible to say whether this was because Mary was rejecting the MSA, or because Hermione was jealous that Mary had other friends (or at least friendly acquaintances) now, and social obligations within Slytherin. Lilian said it was the latter, but Mary thought that would be awfully hypocritical of her, seeing that neither of the Slytherins had complained when Hermione started spending more time with her own housemates the year before, _especially_ since the older girl had a time turner, and was still ‘too busy’ to just hang out even when they were talking.

She watched absently as the fifth-year Ravenclaw prefect ducked a Disarming Charm by a hair and stunned her opponent in the ankle. “Mary!” Neville said, rather emphatically, prodding her in the arm. He had obviously been trying to get her attention for some time.

“Huh? Sorry, Long – Neville,” she corrected herself, still not used to calling him by his first name. “What did you say?”

The shy boy gave her a hesitant smile. “I asked if you wanted to keep time.”

“Um, no, you’d better. I think I need to grab a glass of water.” Dueling was thirsty work.

He nodded, and almost immediately began counting Lilian and Lisa in. Mary wound her way through the many, many dueling platforms that filled the Great Hall. Each of them was about ten meters long, and two wide, with space between them for the group-members not dueling to circle and observe. Eventually she reached the water pitchers and glasses set up at the back of the hall. Professor Flitwick was there as well, though his attention seemed to be more on the first-years casting weak disarming charms at each other on the nearest platform than on the refreshments.

She was not expecting him to speak to her. “What do you think, Miss Potter?”

“Erm… what do I think of what, sir?”

Professor Flitwick chuckled. “Why, the club, of course! I must say, I think the students have taken to it quite well!”

Mary grinned. The Charms professor’s cheer was almost always contagious. “Definitely. Thank you again for agreeing to supervise it, and doing all the organizing and, well, everything.”

“Oh, yes, yes, well, it’s the least I could do. It’s been too long since we’ve had a proper dueling club here at Hogwarts. Not since, oh… the year before you arrived, I believe. Professor Dahlworth managed to revive it after the fiasco with _Maccabee_.” There was more scorn and anger than Mary had ever heard in the little professor’s voice when he mentioned _Maccabee_ , and he cleared his throat before continuing. “I’m afraid popularity rather waned during Reinholdt’s tenure. Professor Mathieu managed to bring it back a bit as well, but she discovered she was pregnant just after the winter holiday, and I’m afraid I was a bit overextended at the time, so it was allowed to fall to the wayside.”

She supposed that did explain how Professor Flitwick had managed to pull the club together so easily. She felt a bit stupid, actually, for thinking that Lockhart was the first to propose it. “Professor Mathieu? And Reinholdt and, um… Maccabee? Were they Defense Professors?”

“Oh, indeed! Ms. Mathieu was one of the good ones.” The Slytherin smiled slightly at the implication that the others _weren’t_ ‘good ones.’ The Charms professor continued a bit less vivaciously. “But that was the year young Quirrell went on sabbatical, and Mr. Pierce did not feel confident taking on the Gobstones and Muggle Studies Clubs in his first year of teaching, so I was supervising those as well as Charms Club, and simply didn’t have the time for this as well. Hopefully we’ll be able to keep up interest, aye?”

“Definitely! It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be, but it’s fun,” she volunteered.

The professor chuckled again. “Well, it only gets harder from here, I’m afraid. How are you doing with Nym’s Game?”

Mary made a face. “I’m tied for last,” she admitted, somewhat reluctantly. “I’ve been winning the duels, but I lose on points. I think I’m dodging too much.”

“Ah, I _see_ … perhaps this will help: Do you know the reason we play Nym’s Game, Miss Potter?”

“I, um… I thought it was just to keep things interesting, sir.”

“Partly, Miss Potter, partly. But like all games, Nym’s is a learning opportunity – it teaches you to think, even in the heat of battle – developing a strategy that accounts for your opponent’s actions is key.” Obviously seeing her confusion, he added: “For example: you play Quidditch. Tell me, would you catch the Snitch if your team was losing on points?”

Mary was slightly thrown, as she didn’t see how Quidditch was an example for anything. “Um, I suppose it depends where we stood with the Cup. I mean, I would if we could make up the difference in the next match, or if we had enough of a lead that it wouldn’t matter, or if conditions were bad and there was a chance the other seeker would spot it before I could because of rain, like at the last match.”

“But in fair weather, in, say, the first match of the season?”

“Well, no, I’d probably try to distract the other seeker, and wait for our chasers to catch up. Unless we were getting stomped – then I guess I’d catch it as soon as possible to minimize the damage. But most of the time I’d wait.”

“Just so!” the Head of Ravenclaw crowed triumphantly.

“I, um… I don’t understand, sir.”

“In Quidditch as the seeker, or in Nym’s, the choice of when and how to end the match is as fundamental to a complete strategy as the choice to dodge or intercept, to cast a shield or an attack, to spend your time seeking diligently or to help the chasers score more points. The rate of point accumulation on both sides plays a factor in when and how you want to end the match.”

The seeker actually _felt_ the connection click as she understood. “So I need to keep the match going long enough to get enough strikes that it doesn’t matter if I dodge?”

The professor made a _hmm_ -sound _._ “It is certainly _easier_ to dodge, especially when one is just starting out, and dodging has its place in dueling, when you advance to using spells that are not easily blocked, but consider: points are awarded for using shields for a reason. The focus and speed you gain in repeatedly casting and dropping shields, switching between defense and offense, will stand you in good stead as you progress in dueling, much as the agility you have honed flying with the chasers aids you in dodging bludgers and chasing the snitch.” His eyes danced as he explained, clearly on the verge of chuckling again.

“Right,” she laughed. “Learning experience.”

“Indeed,” the tiny wizard winked. “Now, I do believe you have a match to return to, Miss Potter!”

“Thanks, professor!” she said sincerely, before wending her way back through the platforms and other duelists. When he put it like that, trying to think about strategy made much more sense. She managed to score two points off of Neville in their next duel (moving her up to negative four), and then Lilian scored one point off Macmillan. Before Lilian and Weasley could square off for the next match, however, Professor Flitwick called everyone to gather around one of the central platforms, to watch a pair of seventh-years give a demonstration of what he called Single-Spell Sparring.

“Creativity is key!” he chirped from the center of the stage. “Each duelist must choose one spell or one spell-class, which is the only magic they will be allowed to use in the course of the duel! For the demonstration, I think, Miss Thrush, Mr. Abbott, I will allow spell-classes. Aside from spell restrictions, the standard ICW rules apply. Now, if you are ready, we shall choose your weapons. Miss Thrush, your preference?”

“Oh, well, put me on the spot, professor,” the Ravenclaw girl said with a pensive hum. “I suppose I could do shield spells.”

“Ooh, a tricky challenge indeed. Mr. Abbott?”

The Hufflepuff looked completely nonplussed, as did most of the crowd around Mary. How in the nine hells did Thrush expect to fight using only shield spells? “I guess I’ll do conjuration,” he said eventually. His designated opponent scowled furiously. Mary presumed that whatever she had been planning would have worked better against charms than transfiguration.

“Excellent! Brilliant!” Professor Flitwick looked like he was about to jump up and down with excitement. “For those of you in the back, Mr. Abbott will restrict himself to conjuration, and Miss Thrush will use only various shield charms! The match will be concluded at third-blood, or when one of the two is unable to continue due to unconsciousness or concession!” He backed away from the center of the stage, where he obviously intended to remain as a referee, before he called for them to bow.

Abbott immediately took the offensive, conjuring a bolt of cloth to blind Thrush. She quickly cast an expanding shield-bubble around herself, tearing the fabric away to regain visibility, and protecting herself from the deluge of water that followed the cloth. Apparently that gave him some clue as to what shield she was using, because he quickly created several flights of birds that began to dive-bomb her, completely unimpeded.

Thrush ducked, and dropped the expanding bubble, instead encasing each of the small flocks in a sphere that glowed briefly with a sick, yellowish light, before both shield and birds blinked out of existence. She began to make better use of her end of the stage, moving to avoid several more birds – crows attacking individually instead of a flock of canaries – and a shower of falling rocks. Thorny vines began to creep toward her ankles from mid-stage, but withered beneath a solid purple blanket of magic. This held long enough for the Ravenclaw to throw a spell toward Abbott, which created a translucent wall and reflected his next attempt at long-distance conjuration – an oil slick – back at him. He skidded to his knees, but pausing long enough to throw that shield at Abbott had cost Thrush: one of his birds swooped down, clawing at her face.

“First blood to Mr. Abbott!” Professor Flitwick announced.

Abbott’s slipping and sliding had sent him careening through the shield wall between himself and Thrush – apparently it only blocked magic. As she used the same yellow-flashing shield to vanish the remaining birds, he followed up with a swarm of giant wasps. These flew in more intricate patterns than the flocks of birds, and were more coordinated than the individual crows. The Ravenclaw, who was now beginning to look rather bedraggled, dove to the floor to avoid their first pass. She tried to trap them to be vanished, but they were nimble, and she was stabbed in the shoulder with a stinger (“Second blood to Mr. Abbott!”) before she resorted to casting some sort of protection directly on herself. By that point she was being harried by a pair of conjured badgers as well, but the blue force-field over her robes and hands seemed to be proof against all of the animals.

She yelped as the Hufflepuff began firing arrows at her, dodging as quickly as she could with the badgers underfoot, and deflecting several with a small silver shield that followed her left hand. She missed one, though, and yelped again as it hit her already-wounded shoulder. It bounced off, but Mary was willing to bet it would leave a heck of a bruise. A look of grim determination washed over the Ravenclaw’s face – Mary had to wonder if she considered the arrows below the belt. Abbott looked almost as tired as Thrush clearly was – conjuring was very difficult magic, and they had been going all-out for several minutes. She swept him off his feet with a green sphere, which left him hovering at about head-height, then dropped it and him before very clearly enunciating the spell Snape used to contain exploding cauldrons (when they couldn’t simply be vanished) and directing it at Abbott’s wand-hand: _“Gludiog!”_

She looked almost as surprised as Abbott when he realized that he could not reach through the spell to retrieve his wand, the bright pink of the shield having sealed around both hand and wand like a glove. And he obviously couldn’t cast magic through it either. He could evidently still move his fingers, but even when he tried to pull his wand away from his affected hand from outside, the shield just stretched, as though it was made of rubber, snapping back when he let it go, strongly enough that he winced visibly when the wand impacted his trapped hand.

After a few long, baffled seconds, the Hufflepuff looked to Professor Flitwick with a shrug. “I guess I concede, then,” he admitted, though it sounded rather like a question to Mary.

The two seventh-years bowed to each other again, this time with Abbott dipping significantly lower than Thrush, and she freed his hand with a simple _finite_. The crowd broke out into excited babbling, with several whoops and cheers from the Ravenclaws among them.

“That was _brilliant_ ,” Mary whispered to Neville, who was the nearest person she recognized. Somehow they seemed to have gotten separated from the rest of their group by a pack of sixth or seventh-year Badgers. He nodded fervently, eyes wide.

The Charms Professor giggled delightedly. “I shall be most excited to share this latest use for Severus’ containment charm with him. Five points to Ravenclaw, Miss Thrush!”

“Thank you, sir,” the witch said, flushing slightly.

The seventh-years set about vanishing the remnants of their duel as the professor continued: “An excellent example of the sort of thing we will all aim for in two weeks’ time! Everybody, please give a round of applause for Miss Thrush and Mr. Abbott!” Almost everyone clapped enthusiastically. “Thank you! First through fourth-years, each of you should prepare at least one spell for our next meeting! Fifth through seventh-years, you may use a full spell-class! If you are uncertain what counts as a spell-class, please ask me before you head back to your dormitories. If you wish to learn a new spell for this challenge, or need advice on which spells are most versatile, I advise you all to consult your senior students – and of course you all know my office hours!” Several students laughed. Out of all the professors, Flitwick had the most office hours, every day before breakfast and after dinner. “Remember: Be inventive! Be creative! That’s all for tonight! Dismissed!”

Thrush and Abbott hopped off the stage, and the professor caused it (and all of the others) to disappear with an elaborate wand-gesture, before shouting for Thrush, presumably to discuss one or more of her shield spells. Most of the students started meandering toward the exits, Mary and Neville along with them.

“What spell do you think you’ll use?” she asked him excitedly. She was thinking of the Summoning Charm. She was very good at it, and could imagine playing all sorts of havoc by summoning clothes or shoes or even wands while someone was trying to cast.

Neville shrugged. “No idea. Maybe a charm? Gran says it’s a soft option, but I’m better at charms than transfiguration.”

“Transfiguring would be hard, anyway,” she pointed out. “Unless you did like Abbott and conjured, it’s not like there’s much to work with. You’d have to like, change my robes into, I dunno, ropes or something.”

Neville eyed her robes closely, then announced, “I might actually be able to do that. Cotton and linen make good rope, right?”

“ _Incarcarious_ is easier,” Mary shrugged, just as Lilian found them. “Hey, Lils. Know what spell you want to do yet?”

“What’s that charm you found that makes things crash into the ground?”

“The Grounding Spell, _vi ál teró_.”

“That could be fun,” she laughed, miming trying to wave her wand and doing a face-plant as the crowd between themselves and the nearest doors thinned.

“Oi! Nev!” the Little Weasel called, heading toward them as well. “What are you doing over here? Dean and Seamus are waiting to walk up with us.” Then he got close enough to see who his dorm-mate was talking to. He gave them a look of complete disgust and Mary realized that he hadn’t spoken a word to her directly over the entire evening. Apparently he was ignoring them, because he said, as though they weren’t right there, “Come off it, mate! First you want them to call you by your first name, and now you’re chatting them up all chummy? What next? Going to ask Potter to Hogsmeade?”

Neville stammered and flushed to the tips of his ears, tripping over his tongue as he tried desperately to explain that he hadn’t been intending to do so – not that he’d be opposed, and he didn’t want to offend, but he hadn’t been planning to ask anyone, and…

Mary, blushing, she was certain, almost as fiercely as the boy, took pity on him. “It’s okay. I, um… I’m not allowed to go, anyway.”

Relief warred with disappointment on the chunky Gryffindor’s features, but she was distracted from trying to determine which would win out by Lilian snapping at the Weasel: “What is your _problem_ , Weasley? _Neville_ has been nothing but _polite_ all evening, and _you’ve_ been nothing but a _git_!”

The red-head joined Mary and Neville in red-faced awkwardness, though his apparently stemmed from anger, rather than embarrassment. “What’s _my_ problem? You want to know what _my_ problem is?! It’s you! You and your stupid petition! Hagrid’s a good person, and _you’re_ getting him _sacked_!”

Mary’s jaw dropped open. Word had come around _days ago_ through the usual channels (gossip and letters from Emma and Catherine) that the new standards for professors had passed the board almost unanimously: they now needed to have an ‘O’ NEWT (or equivalent) in their subject (a Mastery was preferred), and at least four other NEWTs to prove they were well-rounded; they needed at least five years’ teaching experience, either at another academy, or as a tutor, with references; and they needed to be licensed and able to carry a wand.

“ _Hagrid?_ You’re pissed with me about _Hagrid_?! Of all the stupid – FLOBBERWORMS, Weasley! We had _three weeks_ of _flobberworms_!”

The Headmaster had been visibly irritated at meals for the past three days, but Mary didn’t think that the restrictions sounded too stringent. She had been briefly concerned about Remus’ position, but he assured her that there was an exception in place for Defense Instructors: one year of experience was sufficient so long as a ‘real’ professor reviewed their lesson plans and evaluated their teaching style. Since he had several years of seasonal OWL-equivalent tutoring for homeschooled students in France and the States, and the Professor had written a letter endorsing him, there should be no problem.

“Yeah, because your slimy git boyfriend couldn’t handle a bloody hippogriff!”

Hagrid and Binns, on the other hand, would definitely be affected. Hagrid, never having taken his OWLs, failed on all three points, and Binns on the last. Mary noted with grim amusement that even Weasley didn’t seem to have a problem with _Binns_ being replaced.

Lilian looked furious. “One: Draco is _not_ my boyfriend, and two: _so what?_ That doesn’t make Hagrid any less of a shite professor!”

If possible, this made Weasley even angrier. Mary surreptitiously performed the first two movements of the Trigger-Drop Disarming Charm, just in case it was needed. Neville was fingering his wand as though trying to decide if and how to step in. Thankfully (or perhaps not, from Lilian’s perspective), that was when Professor Flitwick came over to see what was taking them so long.

“ _Miss Moon!_ ” he snapped, in his most-disappointed tone. “Five points from Slytherin for disrespecting a teacher, and language most unbecoming!”

Weasley, still red-faced, managed an approximation of a smirk as Lilian made an inarticulate sound of frustration. “Let’s go, Neville,” he said sharply, as though he had done something to be proud of, and stalked off. The other boy muttered an embarrassed farewell and something about seeing them in Potions before scrambling to join his fellow Gryffindors. Lilian apologized to Professor Flitwick before stalking off toward a side-door, rather than pass by the Gryffindors.

Mary was left shaking her head, wondering whether she was impressed by the fact that Neville had managed to go against his dorm-mates and be civil with the Slytherins in the first place, or disappointed at the way he followed Weasley like a scolded puppy. Maybe it was both, she decided, following Lilian toward the dungeons at a much slower pace.

###  Thursday, 25 November 1993

#### Potions Classroom

The Slytherins did, indeed, see Neville in Potions later in the week. He managed to explode a foul concoction that was definitely _not_ a Pepper-up Potion while Professor Snape was making sure that Vinnie and Greg didn’t do exactly the same thing on the other side of the classroom. This resulted in magic-resistant acid-burns for half the Gryffindors (who were briskly dusted with plain, muggle baking soda and sent to Madam Pomfrey), an early-release for the entire class (with an essay assignment “Four feet on what Longbottom did wrong _this_ time and why muggle measures were necessary to counteract the effects”), and a decree that there would be a new seating-chart the following week (“in order to minimize the idiocy inherent in this class in the future”).

Mary and Lilian were lingering over their nearly-exactly-on-target potion, reluctant to vanish all that work, and slowly packing up everything else instead. They were alone in the classroom, carefully cleaning knives and mortars one at a time, when Lilian hissed, “Ask him.”

“Are you insane?” she whispered back. “He’s bound to be in a foul mood.”

“But we agreed it was important!” They had woken up to an aura of general discontent and ennui around the Castle, stronger, it felt like, than it had been all month. The Headmaster had announced at breakfast that a new shift of Dementors had arrived, and that the pervasive depression they exuded should lessen in ‘just a few short days.’ Unfortunately, there was ‘nothing to be done, I’m afraid,’ until then. Even Cheering Charms, which were on Professor Flitwick’s syllabus for the end of the year, failed to make an impact on the misery.

“He was already going to be in a bad mood before _this_ happened,” Mary muttered, dragging her feet back to their workstation.

“He’s not –”

“He _can_ hear you,” Snape drawled, cutting them off, as he cleaned up scattered ingredients and baking soda with a tiny cyclone. “And your Pepper-up has now been simmering for two minutes too long. Vanish it, ask your question, finish cleaning up, and then _leave_ ,” he glared at them. “Your incessant whispering is hardly adequate thanks for an extra half-free.”

Mary rolled her eyes. His sarcasm truly was less intimidating when you knew he didn’t really hate you. Lilian appeared to agree, because she snorted before saying, “Thank you, sir, we truly do appreciate the additional free-time,” in her best unimpressed monotone, then directed an _evanesco_ at the contents of their cauldron. It took two more tries before the last of the mess was gone. She began scrubbing the residue out of the pewter pot, leaving Mary to ask their question as Snape began to restore the acid-pitted tables.

“I’m _waiting_ , Miss Potter,” he said impatiently, not looking up from his task.

“I, um… that is…”

“Gods and Powers, don’t _stutter_ , Miss Potter.”

“Yes, sir. It’s about dementors, sir.”

“What _about_ the dementors?” he asked irritably.

“Do you know anything about them? Or how to make them, well… less horrible?”

Snape raised an eyebrow at that. “Surely this is a question for your friend the Defense Professor,” he observed scathingly.

“We’ve already asked him,” Mary admitted. “He says that the only thing for them is the Patronus Charm, and he doesn’t have time to teach us until after the holiday.”

The Potions professor snorted slightly, likely, she thought, in reaction to the idea of teaching third-years the NEWT-standard charm. Or perhaps not. “I suppose he gave you that spiel about the damned things sucking happiness out of you, and feeding on memories, destroying the soul over prolonged exposure.”

“Yes,” Lilian said, returning from the sinks. “But we looked up the Patronus, and it’s supposed to be a guardian construct made of happy memories, right? And that doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t they just eat it?”

“The construct itself,” Snape corrected her, “is made of light magic, motivated and directed by a happy memory – specifically a memory of something you would protect with your own life. And based on my observations over the course of these past few months, I am inclined to suspect that they feed not on happiness, but on _misery_. The aura suppresses happy memories and, in close proximity, leads you to dwell on those that make you most miserable, anxious, and depressed, dragging those feelings to the surface. While the Patronus Charm is the only common spell used to repel them, advanced Occlumency can be used to ameliorate the effects to a degree – don’t even ask – it is far more difficult to learn Occlumency than it is to learn the Patronus,” he informed Mary pre-emptively. She hadn’t even opened her mouth.

“Blaise knows Occlumency,” Lilian said. “He showed us how to manipulate a boggart.”

The professor rolled his eyes. “Mr. Zabini has been studying Occlumency for nearly seven years. The Patronus charm requires a good deal of power, but once you find the proper memory, I assure you, it will not take you nearly half so long to cast as would learning sufficient mental discipline to negate the Dementor Effect.”

“Can you – that is, would you show us, sir?” Mary asked hopefully. It would be good to see what they were aiming for, even if they wouldn’t be starting to learn it until January.

Snape cocked his head to the side, as though he was considering a matter of great importance, before nodding slowly. He waved the girls out of the way, then closed his eyes and described a languid, open reversed-infinity movement, with an up-swoop at the seventh mark, and a quick downward slash at the end. The incantation was _expecto patronum_ , its last syllable falling on the up-swoop. A beautiful, silvery light shot forth, to form a full-sized deer between themselves and the professor, prancing slightly in place. She – somehow Mary was sure it was a she – radiated a sense of safety and love and wellbeing. It was slightly surprising that Professor Snape, of all people, was capable of that much positive emotion, though she would never say so.

“She’s beautiful,” Lilian whispered, holding a hand out to the construct, much as she had when they had seen the unicorn. Unlike the unicorn, the Patronus nuzzled against her hand. She giggled slightly, and Mary realized that the fug which had been surrounding them all day appeared to have vanished. “Is it always a doe?” the older Slytherin asked, her eyes still on the creature of light.

“The shape of the Patronus varies by caster,” the professor answered, gazing on the Patronus with something like actual fondness, calmer and more relaxed than Mary had ever seen. “But it generally remains stable once you have found it, based on the nature of the memory used to create it.”

“Why?” Mary asked, stroking the gracile snout. It felt like warmth and magic – slightly tingly, with little physical resistance.

“Why does it take the shape that it does?” Snape asked to clarify. She nodded. “Well, conventional texts say that it is a representative of the soul of the person who casts it.”

“You don’t agree, sir?” Lilian observed rhetorically.

“My soul was never so pure as this,” he said sardonically, nodding at the doe. “You do recall my saying that the memory behind the Patronus must be linked to something you would protect with your life, and this shapes the construct? I believe it is more accurate to say that the Patronus guardian takes a shape representative of that which you would die to protect. The doe has a whole slew of symbolic meanings in the general way of things, among them subtlety and trust.”

“And in the not-so-general way of things, sir?” Lilian asked, just as Mary was wondering whether she dared.

“There is a bit of lore regarding the Patronus that suggests the form may shift to match or complement that of your beloved. Matching is especially associated with unrequited love. If you are familiar with the Tale of Parallax and Quincey, it was a key plot-point.” The girls exchanged a blank look. The wizard rolled his eyes. “It’s a modern classic, look it up! The point is, the Patronus can symbolize a person, rather than an abstract idea.”

“Does yours?” Mary half-expected Snape to send Lilian running from the room in tears for asking so personal a question, but he just snorted.

“No. Certain people think so, however, so it would behoove you not to mention that fact outside of this room.” The girls nodded eagerly, and he hesitated only slightly before he admitted: “Lily Evans also had a doe Patronus. Mine is based in a childhood memory, and an abstract idea. Hers, she always said, was based on mine.”

Lilian grinned. “So Lizzie’s mum was in love with you?”

“No.” Snape shot her a quelling look.

“But –”

Snape let the Patronus fade away, and cut the older girl off before she could finish her question. “In answer to your initial question, Miss Potter, there is no magical means short of a Patronus to dispel the aura of the Dementor. The best you can do is to indulge in whatever activities generally give you a sense of security and pleasure until our latest cadre of ‘guards’ is sated, and the aura is naturally reduced.”

“Yes, sir,” the girls chorused.

“If that is all…”

“Yes, sir,” Mary repeated. “Thank you, sir.” Lilian echoed her, and they fled before a shoo-ing motion and a significant look at the door.

 


	19. Justification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in the process of moving. I already had to return my wireless router and next Monday I expect to be on the road with a truck-load of things I'm not entirely convinced I need (no idea why I have so much stuff, honestly...). But in any case, I will likely be unable to update easily from now until the move is completed, so this week you all get a double-post. Regularly scheduled updates will resume after Christmas.

###  Saturday, 27 November 1993

#### Dungeon Classroom

On Saturday the twenty-seventh of November, in the one-thousand, nine hundred and ninety-third year of the Common Era, at five minutes before one in the afternoon, ten very excited students filed into a dungeon classroom. For some, this excitement was tempered by fear. Others felt only the slightest hint of trepidation. This was, they had been informed by their ruthless task-master, the last of their seemingly endless detentions. Those who had been paying attention had noted (very, very quietly, and never within his hearing) that this would make it just one-hundred hours even, rather than, as he had once threatened, one hour for every student they had subjected to their questioning, but they were not inclined to argue the fact. They were more than certain that he was every bit as exhausted with this entire process as they were.

They sat anxiously, attentively, wondering what fresh horror was in store for them. There were no revolting ingredients or tedious potions laid out to prepare, nothing to clean, and no hint of aerosolized mind-altering drugs in the air. The room looked perfectly normal, unlike the time when they were all put under the Isolation Hex, or the time they had been given a devil’s choice, re-living one of the previous tortures or obliviation, or as it had been the week prior, when they were all forced to sit in a circle and spill their most embarrassing secrets for hours on end, to a dicta-quill and an endless scroll, behind a one-way sound ward, with the professor drawling a new question every half-hour or so. They had watched him skim their responses briefly, and waited on tenterhooks to see what he would do with them. There was not one of them who had not breathed a sigh of relief when he burned the entire basket of parchment to ash.

The professor arrived exactly on time, stalking to the front of the room in a flurry of black, as was his wont. His voice, as it had been in their very first class, was low and quiet, even and solemn. They unconsciously leaned forward in order to catch every word.

“Miss Yaxley, Mr. Wilkes, Mr. Lestrange. Miss Potter, Misses Moon. Miss Granger, Miss Lovegood. Messers Weasley. You are here today to complete the last of your detentions in regards to the covert dosing of over three-hundred Hogwarts students, over two-hundred of whom were underage, with _what you believed_ to be an illegal and dangerous potion, regardless of its true nature,” he said baldly, pacing before them.

“Each of you has served at least ninety-two hours to date, completing a number of tasks designed to drive home several lessons: The rights of others are not less important than your own. Privacy, free will, and the sanctity of the mind are not to be tampered with lightly. You are _not_ to rush forward with a plan before examining it from all possible angles, and determining whether the risks truly are justified, given the ends you seek. And perhaps most important: there is no absolution in ignorance, nor in self-righteousness. All actions have consequences, even if they are neither immediately felt nor recognized.

“The Headmaster would say that all is well that ends well – if no lasting harm was done, and the masses do not know that the transgression occurred, then for all intents _it did not_ … _I,_ on the other hand, hold that even those activities which occur unseen, in the darkest of shadows… the decisions made in silence and concealed from all those who might judge… _have an impact_ , if only on oneself, and as such cannot be left unaddressed. And,” he smirked, “as is _often_ the case, you were not as successful at concealing your activities as you believed – had you been, I would not, indeed, have been able to claim your punishment necessary.

“That said… the nature of punishment is that of redress.” The pacing stopped. “After today, we shall not speak of your little _conspiracy_ , nor of the punishment you have endured for it. The slate shall be wiped clean between us… until, as will _assuredly_ be the case, you once again fail to think and another black mark is made against your name.” His eyes raked the classroom, lingering on the Weasleys, before he began pacing again.

“Doubtless, by now, many of you have realized that these detentions are _unofficial_. There has been nothing holding you here, enduring the tasks I have set for you, aside from the fear that your misdeeds might be revealed to the public, and perhaps some small measure of guilt – a need to atone for that which you _knew_ was wrong, even as you did it.” His black gaze swept the room at this, and Mary shivered, feeling momentarily as though he might have been reading her mind.

“Officially, the school, the Headmaster, does not care about your misdeeds. It is one of the great failings of the law in our _illustrious_ nation that you, as students, cannot not be punished for otherwise illegal actions committed on Hogwarts grounds if he does not see fit to recognize them – but make no mistake, willful ignorance can be taken only so far. At a certain point, public opinion may outweigh even Dumbledore’s good will. For this reason above all others, it is _vital_ that you learn the consequences of such actions in the _real world_. If you are allowed to grow into adulthood with the same privileged mindset, fostered here, that you are above the law, that the rules do not apply to you, that _your ends,_ without fail, justify any means, and that your needs are more important than everyone else’s, then you will never understand the impact, the _import_ , of your decisions. You will never become, truly, adults, with a mature understanding of the world we live in, and the role you play in it, alongside other people. At worst, you will, perhaps, fail even to _recognize_ other people as such, caught in the habit of easy dismissal of those you consider less than yourselves.

“You may leave now, if you like. If you do, I, personally, will consider you a failure. You will not be my first failure, nor, certainly, my last. But if you do not have the capacity to see through what we have, between us, agreed upon as recompense for your misdeeds, to which you have given your tacit consent by your un-coerced participation, by your lack of contest of these unofficial, unenforceable detentions… if you fail to see through to the end the lessons set before you this term, I shall consider you incapable of even the meanest effort necessary to reach your full potential, and as such, as utter wastes of my own efforts henceforth to educate you, rather than simply break you, and save the world the effort of doing so once you have graduated and moved on.

“So you may leave now, if you like. If any of this comes as an unwelcome surprise. If you are suddenly overcome with rage at myself and what doubtless seems the utter unfairness of an unwonted punishment.

“Or you may stay. You may complete the final task set before you today. You may decide to make a show of willingness to put forth the effort to better yourselves and grow into competent adults, rather than dunderheaded children. If you would go, go. I will not stop you. The door is open…” The Head of Slytherin paused dramatically, his arm extended toward the door, which slowly creaked forward. Not one student moved, and after a moment that seemed to last for hours, he flicked his fingers, and it slammed shut again with a loud _bang._

They jumped, and Snape smirked in evident satisfaction. Mary didn’t know about the rest of them, but his words about guilt and atonement had struck home for her. She would stick around and see the punishment through to the end, even if, as Remus had pointed out weeks ago, she didn’t really _need_ to do so. It wasn’t like Snape could have them expelled if they refused to show up for detentions that didn’t officially exist in the first place. But she agreed that they deserved to pay for what they had done to the rest of the school. Even if the rest of the school didn’t know, they, _she_ did. She would feel better knowing that she had done what was demanded of her, and that Snape had forgiven her.

“Very well, then,” the Potions Master said silkily, passing out a roll of parchment to each of them, and seating himself at the teacher’s desk. “For the remainder of your detention, you will write me an essay. You will either attempt to justify your actions given the perspective you now have on the situation, or if you find your actions now to be indefensible, you will explain _exactly_ what you did wrong, _why_ it was wrong, and _how_ you ought to have handled the situation instead.” The assignment appeared on the slate as he spoke, much like the instructions for potions labs. “There are no length requirements. Use as much or as little space as necessary to say what you believe you have to say. Think through everything you did, and the tasks I have set for you over the term. Dwell on the lessons you are meant to have been learning, and prove to me that you have done so. You may leave when you believe that you have adequately addressed the topic. _Begin_.”

And with that, all ten of them began rummaging in their bags for quills and ink, before bending their heads over the task at hand. Mary stared at the notes on the board for a long moment before she set ink to parchment, but once she started, it was difficult to stop.

_I knew it was wrong_ , she wrote, _to force people to answer our questions. Or maybe it’s more correct to say I knew we were going to be in trouble for it. I didn’t see a better way to deal with the problem, at the time, and doing something, anything at all, was better than doing nothing and just sitting around waiting for the next attack to happen, especially since everyone thought I was the Heir. _

_Actually, I’m still not sure I can think of a better way to deal with it. It’s not like we wanted to hurt people. We didn’t. We just had to be sure that they weren’t responsible._

_But it’s true I didn’t really think about what the kids we questioned would go through. I mean, we tested the potions on ourselves, but I guess it’s one thing to do something by your own choice, and another to have it forced on you. I should have known better, because I hate having things forced on me, but I guess you’re right – we were putting our own fear of the mystery attacker above their right to choose to answer our questions or not._

_I know why we did it that way, and I still think it made sense: if the Heir knew we were questioning people, he could have taken steps to avoid detection (which we now know he easily could have). If we hadn’t used what is basically an unbeatable truth serum, and it turned out that he was an occlumens (which we now know he was) he could have lied under almost any charm or potion. It might have been overkill, but taking the most extreme route meant we were more likely to find him if we just asked the right questions._

_But I also knew that we were probably going to be punished, because it’s not okay to use illegal potions on other students. And if someone hadn’t been petrifying students, and the rest of the school didn’t think it was me, I probably wouldn’t have. But since they were, and they did, and the Headmaster and the other professors, and even you, sir, didn’t do anything to clear my name – even verify that I was in Hospital when Creevey was attacked – so I ignored the fact that it was probably going to end badly, so that we could figure out who the real attacker was before things ended up being even worse. _

_After all, they sent Hagrid to Azkaban the first time the Chamber was opened, and when sending him back didn’t stop the attacks, who was to say I wouldn’t have been next?_

_But that was later. At first, I was just worried that the whole school would go back to hexing me in the corridors and stuff, like Slytherin did before I admitted I was a Parselmouth. So I decided to do what I thought was in my best interests, and worry about the consequences later. And they weren’t as bad as I thought they would be. I mean, they were still pretty bad – your detentions are really harsh, sir. But we didn’t get expelled, or actually sent to gaol, or have everyone told about what we did, so I know it could have been way worse. And I did learn things. More than just the lessons you listed off earlier._

_In the first detention, for example, I learned that I shouldn’t trust anyone completely, even you. I would never have suspected that you would poison me, and having everyone try to convince me that you had was awful, but not as bad as actually realizing you had – not just me, but everyone. Alongside ‘see how it feels, having someone dose you in secret?’ The answer is just bad. I hated it. _

_It took me a while to figure out why you were trying to teach us ethics, and at the same time slipping us potions, or letting us off with just detentions, when copying out law books made it clear that we had done something worthy of Azkaban. I couldn’t think how it was different than us slipping potions to our classmates. But then I think I got it. You told us the Isolation Hex was a learning opportunity, right? Was it because you’re a professor, and you were teaching us a lesson, that made it okay? Kind of like the way Professor Flitwick makes everything a lesson, even games, except your way is that everything is a lesson, even punishments._

She wrote for hours, pausing occasionally to re-read what she had written, and make sure she was hitting all of the points that had been required. It was a little surprising how quickly the time seemed to pass. When Snape finally let them go (none of them had finished and left early) she felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her. Though that might have been the prospect of an extra eight hours of free time in her week.

Being a delinquent was _exhausting_.

#### Severus Snape’s Quarters

##### Severus

Severus smirked as he settled down read through the essays the Conspirators had written, pleased that none of them had elected to leave without doing so. That, if nothing else, suggested that they had taken his lessons to heart. He did not doubt that the Weasley twins of the year prior would have been out the door before the echoes of the words ‘you may leave’ ceased to reverberate from the dungeon walls. It was undoubtedly unsubtle of him to have directly addressed the purpose of their tasks and the lessons he wished them to have learned, but then, half the group were not Slytherins, and it was better to be safe than sorry when it came to even his own students’ comprehension of the nuances of their interactions.

Besides, having completed the final task with the explicit knowledge that he considered them to have consented to their punishments drastically decreased the likelihood that one of them would reveal the details of any of the tasks he had set them, and would act in his favor should word of his actions in this matter eventually make its way to Dumbledore or the public. With that happy thought in mind, he turned to the scrolls before him.

He anticipated that Granger and the Weasleys would be typically bull-headed, and there were bound to be one or two who would have an inverse reaction to the Trust Tincture with which he had infused the rolls of parchment, but between that, a gentle but insistent compulsion to write, and the Curse of the Honest Author, he expected that most of them would have put down their true beliefs and feelings on their little plot, and whether they had changed over the course of the term. What he would do with those who had _not_ learned the lessons he had set, he was not yet certain, but the first step, as always, was to evaluate their progress.

He dipped a quill in red ink and unfurled the first scroll in his basket. Miss Lovegood’s… letter. He groaned. Of course the strange little too-wise-for-her-years Ravenclaw wrote a letter. He didn’t know why he had thought she might become any less odd as the Antidote to Suggestivity Solution worked its way out of her system. It was going to be a _long_ night.

###### (Excerpt - Luna Lovegood)

_Dear Professor Snape, King of Nightmares and Prince of Spies, Potions Master First Class, etc., etc.,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I myself have been rather under the weather lately, but then, you will know all about that. I am still not happy that you yelled at Daddy, but as we discussed after the Time Out detention, I understand why you did. Thank you for worrying about me._

_‘Think through everything you did, and the tasks I have set for you over the term. Dwell on the lessons you are meant to have been learning, and prove to me that you have done so.’_

_My part in the Conspiracy, as I suspect Miss Yaxley informed you, was rather small. I was not involved from the start, but only after I was questioned. Aerin Mae and Hermione Jean decided that I would be a help to them because I knew the creature was most likely to have been a Basilisk. I helped question all of the other Ravenclaws, and for that I am not sorry._

_I am sorry to have intruded upon their privacy, but knowing what we knew then, it was necessary to determine that none of the Nargles was responsible for the attacks, nor any unwilling eaglet led astray by Wrackspurts or the Deceptive Flittering. He is a tricksy fey creature, that one. Knowing what we know now, perhaps there was a better way – a truth spell, or compulsion, rather than Veritaserum, but we did not have the resources at hand to explore the options, and all of the professors, yourself included, made it clear that they felt the responsibility for finding the Heir lay in someone else’s hands._

_As “responsibilities untended fall to the one who suffers by necessity,” I believe we students were right to act. Perhaps we could have done better, but then, it was our first attempt. Surely you cannot expect us to have gotten it right on the first try?_

_As for the Lessons you have given us to learn, I think the most important is that we should treat others as we would like to be treated, or not treat others as we would not be treated. Anapa will judge us less harshly than you, for we were all questioned by the same method, the difference being only consent. I know you think that this is important, as you dwelt upon it considerably when we discussed Ethics, but the necessity of keeping the fact of our progress in questioning the students from the Heir and of addressing all possible suspects rather negated the point of consent: should we have asked first, and only forced those who did not wish to comply, while risking word of our activities reaching the Heir?_

_As an aside, for consideration, it seems hypocritical for the Spy Prince to object to this expediency. What else is the role of the Spy if not to determine who ought to be allowed what knowledge?_

_Doubtless you will object that you are an adult, and we merely children, but have you not been trying, over the course of the term, to teach us to hold ourselves to the standard of adults? Perhaps it is that by taking on what ought to have been an adult’s responsibility, as the ones who suffered the threat of attack, we proved ourselves worthy of recognition as such?_

_I must say, I am rather pleased to have been Recognized almost a whole year early._

_My favorite detention was Time Out, though I believe the first one was the most effective on the group as a whole, at least insofar as expressing the dangers of what-might-have-been. Though I assure you, there is no universe in which Hermione Jean would not have tested the potion on herself before anyone else: it is simply not in her nature to use others in such a way. Had it been, I suppose she would have been a Slytherin from the start._

_My least favorite detention was the Queasejelly._ […]

###### (Excerpt - Perry Wilkes)

[…]

_The worst detention for me was the one where you gave us a choice, and I chose to be obliviated. I didn’t realize, before, how horrible it is to know that something happened, and not know what. This, along with the one with the truth serum, probably made the greatest impact on me, at least in making me realize the true extent of what we had done to everyone. I think the most important one, though, was the ethics discussion._

_For the record, I knew that these detentions were ‘voluntary’ in the second week. Father is a solicitor – I know how the Hogwarts Treaty works. But I didn’t say anything. I never doubted your ability to make us regret it if we didn’t show up. I didn’t think you’d go so far with us as you did with Damian Stryke, but we Slytherins know not to underestimate you. And if I’m honest, it didn’t ever really sit quite right, this whole conspiracy thing._

_It started small, with Little Moon asking us to help get a few of the rarer ingredients for the potion, and that was kind of fun – we almost got caught by the acromantualae, and that put me off a bit, but for the most part, it seemed mostly harmless. We weren’t really doing anything, after all, just… facilitating. And then they told us exactly what they were doing, and we saw that you were questioning the Slytherins, and it wasn’t any of us, and we were scared. It was clear, you see, that you, sir, were concerned – enough to use legilimency on students – and we trusted that there was something to be concerned about._

_Maybe it sounds silly, following a bunch of second-years into some mad escapade because we were afraid, but... I’ve never been scared at Hogwarts before, and doing something seemed better than not doing anything. And it seemed like the Slytherin thing to do, dealing with the problem ourselves, by any means necessary._

_We told ourselves – I told myself – that no one would get hurt._

_But I’m not sure that’s true. That’s why the ethics discussion was the most important. Because it made me wonder if we didn’t hurt people without knowing it. Of a certainty, we – I – never meant to. We did everything we could to make it safe, testing both the Veritaserum and the memory muddling process on ourselves, and only asked questions related to the Heir mystery. We didn’t try to violate their minds any more than absolutely necessary. But I’m not sure, now, that it was enough._

_I guess the question I have now is ‘does it count as harming someone, if they don’t think of it as harmful?’ Because I’m pretty sure that most of them don’t think anything happened at all, let alone a violation of their privacy. I’m a pretty good occlumens, and Morgana is better, and even for us, when we tested the memory muddler, it was just like feeling unusually tired, after having a strange dream. We wouldn’t have been able to put together what happened, if, for example, we had been questioned in the Library, and thought we had just drifted off over a particularly boring passage._

_The real difference between the detentions with the truth serum and the obliviation, you see, are that I remember what happened. (And the truth serum was embarrassing – we didn’t try to embarrass anyone.) And I feel slightly traumatized because I know that there are things that I did, without knowing what they are. And because I know that I told you about my secret fantasies and hopes and dreams and my first crush and every time I ever cheated in my life, going back to when I was four and stole candy from my mother’s study. (Thank you for burning that scroll, by the way. I know you’re probably not interested in any of that shite anyway, but I still feel better not having it floating around. I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to burn this one as well?)_

_But the point is, if I didn’t know that I had admitted those things, if I thought I had spent the afternoon and evening of the sixth of October in the Hospital Wing sleeping off food poisoning or something, I don’t think I would feel as though anything was wrong. And I guess my question is, does it still count as hurting someone if you think you did, but they don’t?_

_And I don’t have an answer._

_I’ve done more reading on it, you know._

_Ethics._

_I even got Father to send me some of his legal texts on the subject._

_They call crimes like ours ‘obscure’ – they’re not victimless, but the victim is unaware of the crime perpetrated against them. There are laws on the books to deal with them. They all seem to take the line that an obscure crime is a crime against the state, against order and society, rather than against an individual, which is why obliviating muggles to preserve the Statute of Secrecy is not illegal. I tried telling myself that what we did should be in that category, ‘excepted obscure crimes,’ but it still feels wrong._

[…]

###### (Excerpt - Lilian Moon)

_We won’t do it again._

_That’s what your lessons really mean, isn’t it, sir?_

_All the ways you pointed out that it could have gone wrong, and all the ways you tried to put us in the place of the people we questioned, and your place, and make us realize that we had done something seriously wrong, in a moral way – what you were really saying was ‘don’t do it again,’ right?_

_Well, we won’t._

_Well… I won’t._

_This was a special case. I don’t know about the others, but I didn’t do it for the glory of having caught the monster or the adventure of solving the mystery. It sounds a bit Hufflepuff, but I did it because one of my best friends is muggleborn, and one was accused of being the one attacking students. Even after the first petrification – Creevey – when she was in Hospital, they were saying that Liz had to be the Heir. It seemed like it was only a matter of time until they decided to make a scapegoat of the only Parselmouth in the school._

_What else?_

_ Attempt to justify your actions. _

_I don’t really have any defense for my actions, except that I felt like I had to do something. And Hermione and the twins thought we could do it, and it turns out they were right. _

_ Explain exactly what you did wrong (and why it was wrong). _

_Forcing people to answer our questions was wrong, because we hadn’t the authority or the right._

_Confusing them and making them forget that we had was also wrong, for the same reason. Plus it was a violation of privacy and stuff._

_Making a potion like that was wrong because it could have turned into poison, or we could have over-dosed people by accident, or we could have been hurt trying to get the ingredients or something._

_ Explain what you ought to have done instead. _

_Maybe instead we should have asked you to ask the other professors to question their own students? Or Headmaster Dumbledore? But I kind of expect that you did._

_I guess when we decided we were going to do something ourselves, we should have got Hermione to look for other truth serums and spells instead of just using the first one that we found? At least we talked her out of trying to use polyjuice to interrogate the older Slytherins. That would’ve been even more pointless. Do we get partial credit for that?_

_I think we did the best we could with the resources we had. We did test everything on ourselves, so we knew none of us were the Heir, and we used mostly the same questions you asked us, when you interviewed everyone. Maybe we shouldn’t have been the ones to do it, but it seemed like someone had to, and no one else was._

_What else should we have done? I don’t know. We started the Basilisk rumor so everyone could protect themselves. Trying to find the real attacker was the only thing that would have helped Elizabeth, though._

_If we hadn’t done anything when we had the option of trying, I think I would feel worse. I mean, I feel bad for stealing half an hour of so many kids’ lives, but I still think it was worth it, because for me it would have been way worse to sit around not being able to do anything._

_Bad Things:_

·         _We attacked way more people than Riddle, even if ours were less awful attacks._

·         _We brewed a really advanced, dangerous potion, and tested it on ourselves, which was dangerous to us._

| 

_Good Things:_

·         _We felt like we were doing something, even if it wasn’t very useful._

·         _Ginny Weasley was found out in April, instead of however many months or years later, and she didn’t die._

·         _We foiled Riddle’s plan._

o   _Mostly the twins and Liz, but he could have been anyone, so ruling out everyone else was just as important._

o   _The Basilisk and the Horcrux are dead now, and the Castle is safe._  
  
---|---  
  
_Do the good things outweigh the bad? I don’t know._

_I don’t know what else to write._

_Merlin, I feel stupid, writing ‘I don’t know’ over and over. It’s like this was just a really bad situation, and we probably didn’t do the right thing, but I don’t know what the right thing was, and I wish someone would just tell us, or take care of it for us. Isn’t that what adults are for? But no one did, and we did what we did and no one knows how it might have turned out if we didn’t, so how can we know if we did the right thing or not? I mean, we didn’t do it because we wanted to steal people’s secrets for blackmail or something. We would never have done it just for that. And I don’t think a situation like this is ever going to happen again, so, you know, I’m not ever planning on doing anything like this again. _

_No one else is done yet, and I don’t want to be the first one to leave, so I guess I’ll just keep thinking about it for a while…_

[…]

###### (Excerpt - Adrian Lestrange)

_I…_

_What we did was…_

_We did not use a Suggestibility Solution on the other students._

_I believe our actions were poorly thought-out._

_Have you charmed this parchment, sir? How positively devious._

_But I refuse to provide a confession written in my own hand as to the events you allege I took part in. How does the saying go? “It’s not that I don’t trust you, sir, it’s just that I don’t trust you.” Legalities don’t really mean much when it comes down to public opinion, after all. And with a name like mine, it doesn’t pay to go about making it easy to further persecution._

_Instead, I suppose I shall write about each so-called detention. They weren’t really detentions, because they weren’t registered with the school, but we thought they were, and that we had to attend them. I am here now under threat of public revelations of morally abhorrent things I may or may not have done, regardless of their criminal nature. Continuing to sit here today does not in any way signify my un-coerced participation in this or any other ‘detention.’_

_Today is 27 Nov. 1993. Myself and several companions have been assigned to write an essay of unspecified length, ‘attempting to justify our actions’ or, failing that, ‘to explain exactly what we did wrong, why it was wrong, and how we ought to have handled the situation better.’ I suspect that this is a trick intended to force us to implicate ourselves in illegal and/or immoral or unethical activities, in such a way as may be used against us in the future._

_On 20 Nov. 1993, myself and my companions were given a truth serum under the aforementioned conditions of coercion, and placed behind one-way sound barriers with dicta-quills to record our answers to several questions asked by one Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin at Hogwarts. No one was physically able to hear our responses, but Professor Snape opened and examined each scroll before publically destroying them. As Professor Snape is a known master of the Mind Arts, it is not outside the realm of possibility that he has perfected the trick of total recall, and as such is perfectly aware of the material contained within those scrolls, which while not incriminating is likely in some cases sufficiently embarrassing to be considered blackmail-worthy._

_On 13 Nov. 1993, myself and my companions, under the aforementioned conditions of coercion, were assigned to clean used cauldrons for eight hours, without magic. This process was tedious and dangerous, as we were required to determine and neutralize the components of the residues within the cauldrons before we proceeded to scrub them. Of the six cauldrons I cleaned, four contained residues which would have been dangerous or even deadly had they not been properly neutralized._

_On 30 Oct. 1993, myself and my companions, under the aforementioned conditions of coercion, were assigned to copy the line “I must respect the rights of my fellow students” indefinitely. One of my companions arrived late to this task, and was assigned an additional detention with Mr. Filch, despite the fact that the detention was supposedly ‘not mandatory’ – not that we knew that at the time._

_On 23 Oct. 1993, myself and my companions, half of whom are under the age of consent, were placed by Professor Snape under the Isolation Hex, which is a Dark spell, the use of which is controlled by the Ministry. It is restricted to use in Auror training, and is not, under any circumstances, to be used upon minors, due to the likelihood of mental trauma caused by total sensory deprivation. Even in Auror training, candidates must be evaluated by a certified Mind Healer for mental stability before the spell is placed upon them. I found this ‘detention’ to be so disconcerting that I looked it up after._

_I realize that, if Professor Snape was telling the truth about illegal activities on Hogwarts’ grounds not being prosecutable without the consent of the Headmaster, that it is unlikely he would be tried for this offence, but the fact of the matter remains, should the illegal and/or immoral activities that myself and my companions are alleged to have participated in become public knowledge, so too would this – and a teacher of children has more to fear from the ruin of his reputation than an underage student._

[…]

###### (Excerpt - Hermione Granger)

_I suppose it would be easiest to address the points you have mentioned methodically and in order:_

  1. _The rights of others are not less important than your own._



_I understand this intellectually to be true, but when it comes down to it, I cannot bring myself to truly believe it._

_In a matter of my life versus someone else’s, I think I would choose to save myself. On a smaller scale, if my safety and comfort were at risk because of someone else’s selfish actions, I believe I am fully within my rights to attempt to secure them – especially my safety. If it were a matter of my actions being selfish, or taking my pleasure at the expense of others, then I would agree. My right to happiness is only equal to everyone else’s. But all rights are not equal to each other: my right to safety and an education supersedes the right of others, such as Riddle, to happiness, at least when that happiness would be best assured by the petrification or death of myself and people like me._

_I don’t think that I put my rights in general above others at any time last term – I could argue that even dosing everyone with Veritaserum was for their own good. They would have been safer with the apprehension of the Heir, just as I was. I know you will say (again) that it was not my right or responsibility to decide what is or is not for anyone’s good but my own. Or perhaps even that I am a child, and as such, I am not allowed to make such decisions for myself, in many cases. But I am fully capable of doing so – evaluating pros and cons and deciding on a course of action. My life is mine to risk, and as my parents are muggles, they do not have any more authority in our world than I do as a child._

_My rights are not more important than anyone else’s, but no one else’s are more important than mine, either, and I have no one to protect my rights for me if I don’t do it myself._

  1. _Privacy, free will, and the sanctity of the mind are not to be tampered with lightly._



_We – or at least I, as I cannot speak for the others – did not take these lightly, any more than you have taken them lightly in designing our punishment. We have discussed the difference between secrecy for its own sake, and necessary secrecy. In the case of an unknown attacker within the school, any plan to find him had to be kept secret to avoid alerting him to the hunt and somehow preparing for it and avoiding our search. So we could hardly let people remember that we had been questioning them. And we did do our best not to violate anyone’s privacy any more than necessary to determine whether they were the Heir, and if they knew anything about the Chamber of Secrets. It’s not as though we went around asking what color knickers everyone had on, or who their first snog was. That last detention took our privacy far more lightly than we took anyone else’s._

  1. _You are not to rush forward with a plan before examining it from all possible angles, and determining whether the risks truly are justified, given the ends you seek._



_This… we might have been able to do better on this. It’s true that we didn’t give the plan a lot of thought before we started it. I could have researched more options. Less extreme options. But that would have delayed us, if we decided that the most extreme option was the safest, and the one we needed, which you will recall from my essay on alternative truth-telling spells and potions, I determined in hindsight that we did. We did think about it and plan during the brewing process, and by the time we implemented it, it was as close to fool-proof as we could make it._

_Given what we knew then, I still think it was worth the risk. I did look up the laws, before we did anything. I love magic, professor, but it makes little difference to me if I am unable to practice it due to being expelled and having my wand snapped, or because I was killed by some unknown monster, or because I was withdrawn from school in fear for my life, and thereafter unable to learn properly – you know the options for a muggleborn child. Willing independent tutors are few and far between, and day-schools insufficient for the truly inquiring mind – not to mention more expensive._

_Brewing Veritaserum is difficult, but I trust my own skills and my ability to follow instructions. I tested it on myself first, well aware of the potential side effects if it had gone wrong. We did everything we could think of to make the plan safe, and I think we succeeded._

  1. _And perhaps most important: there is no absolution in ignorance, nor in self-righteousness. All actions have consequences, even if they are not immediately felt nor recognized._



_I know you think I am a self-righteous know-it-all, just as much as you did before we started our current project. I know you think I’m impetuous and reckless and thoughtless, and that I should have been in Gryffindor. You’ve said it enough times, and I won’t argue with any of that. But I am not and never have tried to use it as an excuse. I have never tried to escape taking responsibility for my actions. And I did know the possible consequences, for every stage of the plan. I knew it was risky, and that there were some unavoidable dangers, like when we petitioned the unicorn for his blood. And I still couldn’t stand by and do nothing._

_I think you have made the point that “all actions have consequences, even if they are not immediately felt nor recognized,” and “even those activities which occur unseen, in the darkest of shadows; the decisions made in silence and concealed from all those who might judge, have an impact, if only on oneself” far more clearly in our discussions of my reading in the Restricted Section than in our detentions. Because we’re only in detention because we got caught._

  1. _Attempt to justify your actions given the perspective you now have on the situation._



_Knowing what I know now, from Ginny’s memories and Lizzie’s report of what happened in the Chamber, I am even more certain that we did the right thing in attempting to stop Riddle. We may have failed to stop his getting a corporeal body, but he had planned to hold onto her for months longer, and we spared her that by tipping him off._

_I already knew, before we started these detentions, that we were acting rather paternalistically toward our fellow students by taking matters into our own hands. I read my parents’ medical ethics books when I was nine. But the people who should have had the authority to make those decisions – the Heads of House and the Headmaster – did nothing – or at least did not assure us that the situation was under control, and I still feel justified in the assumption that they were doing nothing, given the fact that the Headmaster allowed Quirrelmort to lurk around the school all the previous year._

_Would the other Heads of House have made the effort to seek out the Heir in their houses if we had asked them to? I am inclined to say ‘no.’ Aerin’s friend Kirke and Prefect Clearwater asked Professor Flitwick, who insisted that there was nothing to fear right up until Sir Nicholas and Finch-Fletchley were petrified; Professor McGonagall proved that she would not be circumspect enough to question the culprit without alerting them when she took our suspicions about Quirrell directly to him; and Professor Sprout would never accuse her Badgers of anything so unfriendly as attacking other students. Even you, sir, seemed uninterested in apprehending the Heir, so long as it was not one of your Slytherins._

_It was not, perhaps, the best of plans, or the best executed. I think if we were doing it all again, I might suggest we use different methods to decide which students to question first. We started mostly with the upper years, because we thought they would have had the longest time to find the Chamber, and the most skills to control the Monster, but starting with students newer to the school, or those whose behavior was suspicious might have been smarter. But it didn’t really fall apart until the twins chased Riddle into the Chamber. Until then, it worked perfectly, albeit slower than I would have liked._

_Sorry, sir. I know this isn’t what you want to hear. But I still think we did the right thing, and that it was worth it._

  1. _Explain exactly what you did wrong, why it was wrong, and how you ought to have handled the situation instead._



_What we did was necessary. Was it right to do it without asking anyone? Probably not. Was it wrong? Maybe? It wasn’t anything I wouldn’t willingly go through myself, at least._

_If we could, I would apologize to the innocent students we questioned, but in the grand scheme of things, from their point of view, each of them suffered about the same effects as sitting through one History of Magic lesson. I understand that you want me to think before I do something so unutterably stupid as to rush headlong into a half-cooked plan again, and I promise I will, but I cannot promise that I will not, at some point, decide to take it upon myself to solve a problem that no one else seems to be working on._

_I will, however, as we have discussed, consult you before doing anything that you might later qualify as ‘categorically moronic.’_

_It’s an interesting question, if you can even say whether a necessary thing is right or wrong to do. Do moral judgments have a place in matters of public safety? Or I guess, ‘at what point?’ because obviously there has to be a decision at some point. Obviously the safety of many is worth more than the happiness of the few, or no one would never be sent to prison, but history – both muggle and magical history – is full of examples where the ‘good’ of the many has been used as an excuse to persecute the few. I would, perhaps, go so far as to categorize Riddle’s persecution of muggleborns, both in the school and during the War, in this way: we are a significant minority which he saw fit to attempt to exterminate for what he considered the good of society, and if you look at the statistics, he came scarily close to succeeding._ […]

###### (Excerpt - Aerin Moon)

[…]

_So, yes, it is clear to me now that what we did was wrong. It always was. I should have questioned exactly what Hermione needed those alembics and ingredients for in the first place, but I thought she was just experimenting, like half the house does. The things she asked me to pick up at Pasterel’s were harmless. And as far as the ‘Conspiracy’ goes, at first, all I really did was help search for a creature that could petrify people._

_They didn’t tell me what they were planning to do until that Hufflepuff kid and the ghost got petrified._

_I should have said ‘no’ then. I should have told them they were being stupid, and had no business trying to dose anyone with a truth serum. But Hermione and Elizabeth are my friends, and Annie’s my sister. No matter how much of a twit she can be, or how bad an idea it sounded, I wasn’t about to let her do something like that without me._

_What really convinced me was when Annie and Elizabeth told me about Professor McGonagall pulling them up to the Headmaster’s office, and how he didn’t do anything but ask them if there was anything they wanted to tell him. Lilian was pretty sure he was trying to use Legilimency on them. Like he thought they were the attackers. And he didn’t interrogate anyone else. We asked around. It was weird. Everyone knew you were talking to the Slytherins, sir, but Headmaster Dumbledore only talked to Elizabeth, and Professor Flitwick didn’t question anyone. And that wasn’t going to help solve anything. So I agreed to help them, even though the Plan sounded horribly risky. I thought I could do more good if I was helping than if I turned them in._

_So I was against the plan from the start, but somehow I still got carried away. I even dragged Luna into it, when she figured out that it was probably a Basilisk. It was so easy to think we were doing the right thing, when Hermione was right there saying it, and everyone else seemed so determined, and even Luna didn’t seem to have a problem with it, and we had forced her just the same as we were planning to do to everyone else._

_But Grey was pissed, and Amy looked so lost and confused when we got her, and Eloise cried. Lara, Kirke and Thom looked at me like I killed their favorite puppy, and most of the younger kids… we scared them. Even if they don’t remember, and don’t treat me any different, I do. By the time we got to the second-years, it was making me sick, thinking that we were going to force that potion on even one more kid… again, and again. _

_And I still didn’t stop. I didn’t say anything. Because I thought what we were doing was awful, but necessary. I kept thinking, ‘it’s just a few more, we’re almost done, we have to find them soon, and then we’ll turn them in and it will be done.’ And we did our best to teach everyone how to protect themselves, and reassured them that it wasn’t any of the Slytherins or Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs (the twins didn’t ever get through all of Gryffindor). And that was more than the professors did, either._

_I was so scared when Elizabeth and the twins disappeared that I wasn’t even worried about what we had done coming out. When they were found, then I started to be scared that we would be expelled, or even sent to Azkaban. It was a relief when I got the note saying that we were going to serve detention with you, not only because we weren’t being expelled or worse, but because the secret and what we had been doing was eating away at me. It was a relief that someone outside of the Conspiracy, someone with greater perspective, knew, and had judged us worthy of earning a second chance._

_I came to every one of these detentions even though Lara told me in September that I could probably get out of them, because I knew we deserved to be punished. Everything you’ve made us do was fair, even though some of it was horrifying and frustrating and traumatizing, because I saw those kids’ faces before the Veritaserum kicked in and after we administered the antidote, especially when they fought it, and they were terrified. You were right, at least about me, when you talked about penance. I still feel very bad about what I – we – did, but at least I don’t have nightmares anymore about little children with slack mouths and glazed eyes coming to and recoiling from me in fear._

_Even though I justified my actions at the time, I think I knew, even then, that they truly were unjustifiable._

_I think what bothers me the most is that I never said no, even when I realized that it wasn’t harmless. I thought it was for the best at first, and then it was easier to just keep going along with it. Merlin and Morgan, it sounds awful looking back at everything._ […]

###### (Excerpt - Morgana Yaxley)

[…]

_In sum, then, I believe it is safe to say that although our actions were somewhat impetuous, in that they were taken with little regard for the thoughts or feelings of others, they were not made in haste, nor entirely thoughtlessly. We were not led along, all unwilling, into this plot, but were aware at every stage, and at every stage considered whether there were other options. For that we must take responsibility, and I do, fully, for my choices and my actions and my failure to find or make a better alternative course of action. I might never have had so bold and daring an idea as this in the first place, but I do not regret choosing to participate when the opportunity was presented._

_I do regret, now, that our actions were taken at the expense of so many otherwise innocent children – had we, perhaps, given more thought to the individuals we were questioning, rather than to the difficulties of obtaining honest answers, disallowing evasiveness, and avoiding the notice of the Heir, we might have further minimized the collateral impact. It may interest you to know that we emulated your own tactics, beginning with the oldest, most experienced students in each House and working our way down to first-years._

_So, lesson learned: I shall, in the future, endeavor to take into account the fact the impact my actions and choices have on other people. Thank you for taking the time to teach me a perspective which will doubtless be of value to me as I enter Society. I trust, however, that you will not be offended if I say that I look forward to meeting only in more amiable circumstances from here on out._

_I also wanted to say thank you for letting me keep my position as Prefect. I realize that it was probably more the fact that you had no other options than true leniency, but I do appreciate it nevertheless._

_Finally – and my apologies, sir, if this is too bold of me: if so, please disregard it in its entirety – but your speech, earlier… you sounded almost… desperate? We know you worry about your Slytherins growing up and finding their way into Azkaban, like so many of Slughorn’s Slytherins did. It’s not exactly secret that you want us to be successful, after we leave Hogwarts. I appreciate that, and I think most of the other upperclassmen do as well. _

_You don’t act like you want us to grow up to follow the Dark Lord, like most of my friends’ parents. Even my father admits that that road is the lesser evil, compared to the plans the Light has for our society, for all he has publicly repudiated the Dark Lord. He was worried, you know, when I started here, that you would teach all of the little Slytherins to be Death Eaters in training, and that I would be judged for his choices._

_I think he’s pleased that you teach us to think and reason and decide for ourselves how best to reach our full potential. I suspect I am in the minority, in that respect – many of the upperclassmen are at odds with their families because they wish to make their own choices in life._

_We will not make our parents’ mistakes, following them blindly into ruin as they followed their parents, or being easily led astray by flattery, or getting carried away by rhetoric and the thrill of power. We will not be led by our friends into war unquestioning of their motives, or resort to extremes without considering whether there are better alternatives. If nothing else, I think the explanation above should make that clear. We will think before we act, and even when given only the choice of poor options, we will make rational decisions – ones we can justify, because if you have taught us nothing else, sir, it is that our every choice will be questioned. And I thank you for that, as well. _

###### (Excerpt - Fred Weasley)

[…]

_Of course we’ll justify our actions for you, sir:_

_It was your fault, the professors, for not doing something yourselves._

_If you had done something, anything, to stop the attacks – not just you, personally, but any of you – maybe we wouldn’t have felt it was necessary to try to solve the mystery and save the school ourselves._

_You questioned the Slytherins under legilimency. We will give you credit for that. Even though having your Head of House inform you that he’s going to use legilimency on you probably counts as consent only about as much as getting dosed in an abandoned classroom. It’s not like any of the Snakes were going to tell you ‘no.’ But no one questioned us. Mary said that Dumbledore claimed to know who it was that had petrified Colin. He mentioned it in the Hospital Wing that night. And if you recall, we are now aware of how Quirrell was possessed by Riddle’s future self. He – Dumbledore – and you all must have considered that Riddle was doing the same thing again – he could have been anyone. As evidenced by the fact that it was our sister. _

_We feel probably as bad as it’s possible to feel about the fact we didn’t realize Ginny was being possessed, but we can’t feel bad about questioning everyone to try to figure out who was behind it. If you had done your jobs and actually looked into it for the safety of the students, we wouldn’t have had to, but as it was, well… we didn’t hesitate – we’ve done worse than knock out the entire school for half an hour just for a prank. _

_This was  serious. And quite frankly, as the professor who has complained about our lack of motivation more than any other (even Minnie), we think you ought to appreciate the fact that we finally did something for more than a laugh. It even involved potions – really bloody difficult potions. We spent ages figuring out whether we could just conjure a glass still, and looking up all the contraindications and side effects and how to reverse them if something went wrong. We know we’re not Potions Masters, but we think we’ve done alright for ourselves the last few years. And we test all our products on ourselves, including that one. We wouldn’t have put everyone in even more danger to try to catch the Heir, or at least not more than we were willing to take on ourselves. It wasn’t like he had killed anyone, so we weren’t going to take that level of risk to stop him. _

_It’s true that we weren’t really thinking about what it’s like to be jumped in the hall and forced to answer questions, or have your memories messed with. We don’t really have any justification for that, besides saying that, legalities of the specific potion we used aside, it was nothing worse than Hogwarts students do to each other all the time, just more systematic, and on a larger scale. Merlin’s pants – even the professors have been known to do worse. Did you know that until we questioned him, Lockhart was obliviating anyone who saw him do anything embarrassing, whenever there were few enough witnesses? You’d have to ask Yaxley what she did to him, but she swore she’d put a stop to it, even before the thing at the end of the year._

_Really, we think that your real problem with the Conspiracy was that this one sets a bad precedent. Pranks are a fact of life at Hogwarts, but sneakily dosing everyone and making them forget all about it, in order to accomplish something more than a little harmless fun? That has the potential to be exploited on a much larger scale. Don’t worry. We won’t do anything with it. We’re not malicious. It’s not like we’ve ever warded the Slytherins out of their Common Room or made our rivals seriously ill or perved on the girls’ showers or stolen test answers or set up anyone to get fired or expelled, even though we easily could. (Lockhart really wasn’t us.) Your detention assignments made it pretty clear that you don’t think very highly of us, but we do recognize where the line is, and we try not to cross it too far. _

_For the most part, we feel that the risks to the student body were minimal. The risks to us, individually, as the first ones to test the potion, and the brewers, and to the rest of the Conspiracy, collecting ingredients and risking getting caught were somewhat higher, but, again, to be honest, the risks of brewing and testing the potion weren’t that much worse than our average Tuesday. We’re daring, not stupid. It’s true we weren’t thinking of the legal risks of our actions. We were convinced that if we were successful and didn’t actually hurt anyone, we wouldn’t be punished. We looked up how the laws actually apply to underage students over the summer, and were quite pleased to find that that would be the case. Yes, the Wizengamot could try us and then wait to send us to Azkaban after our seventeenth birthday, but Dumbledore loves us, and would never press charges – not when we were trying to help._

_There is something we want to make clear, though: when it comes to our family, there is absolutely no risk we would not take to keep them safe. Hermione thinks we went wrong when we dragged Mary into the Chamber, but she doesn’t understand. She’s an only child. Ginny is our little sister, and we have to take care of her. We will never regret any actions taken in pursuit of that end, and giving us detention until we graduate or even outing us to the Prophet won’t change that fact. We’ll own up to our actions and take any punishment we earn for them without complaint, even yours, but we won’t apologize for that._

###### (Excerpt - George Weasley)

[…]

_All that aside, well… we’d do it again._

_We know that’s the wrong answer, but it’s true. See, even after everything you’ve made us do, the only part of the plan we feel a little bad about is that we didn’t listen to Potter when she told us we should get you before we went into the Chamber. That was the plan: Find the Heir, tell Snape. But when it was our sister who was possessed, hostage, we panicked._

_We would do anything for her._

_Looking back, it would have made more sense to find you, and tell you what happened, but we weren’t thinking. If we were, we would have listened to the kid. We’re not sorry that we went ourselves, but given that we don’t remember so much, we will admit that you might have done better. But then again, maybe not. Anything could have happened down there._

_As for the rest of it, well… come on. The Rip Van Winkle Halloween Prank of 1990 had more lasting impact on the student body than our questioning. I think everyone we questioned would be happy to trade half an hour of muddle-headedness and a lingering sensation of having had a nightmare for assurance that none of their friends were the Heir of Slytherin. Which is basically what we were doing. Your detentions with the questioning and the obliviation were totally different – we know – we used the process on each other first. And it’s not like we went out of our way to take advantage of anyone – we’d never! We didn’t even ask Angelina, Katie, and Alicia if we should make a move on any of them, let alone anything we could use to embarrass anyone later. We talked about it with the others, and decided that it was only honorable and, you know, acceptable if everyone stuck to the list and didn’t use this whole mess to screw with anyone. We do know how to be serious, and where to draw the line.  _

_Most of the real risks were on us. Hermione, Fred and I, then Morgana and her lot, then the rest of the gang. Hermione, Fred and I did the brewing and tested it on ourselves first. Morgana, Wilkes, and Lestrange helped get a lot of the more dangerous ingredients. And any of us could have been caught, or, like actually happened, ran into the Heir unexpectedly at any time. We knew that, and we talked about it ahead of time, with each other and with some of the others. None of us went into this blind. We did a lot of research to make sure we weren’t doing anything that would hurt anyone – If we did, we would have been just as bad as the Heir. _

_We didn’t think we’d be caught, obviously. And we really didn’t think about the legalities of what we were doing. But I think if we had, we would still have done it. For one thing, we would have realized that Dumbledore (or McGonagall) wouldn’t actually expel us, let alone send us to Azkaban, for trying to help save the school, as soon as we looked up the laws and the Treaty (which we did, after you scared the stuffing out of us last term). And, well… we wouldn’t let the law stop us from doing the right thing, anyway. And trying to find the Heir was definitely the right thing. We still don’t understand why none of the (other) professors did anything. _

_But yeah, all else being equal, knowing what we do now, if we had to choose again, I reckon we would do the same thing._

[…]

###### (Excerpt - Mary Potter)

_In conclusion, I have learned that I need to take more time to think before I act, and to put myself in other people’s shoes before I do, and think about everything I’m doing that might hurt someone in some way, and then decide if it’s really worth it. I also have to think about what the fall-out will be for me, including legally, which I didn’t, and I should have, especially since I knew it was going to be trouble._

_But I have also learned that the rules are not the same for everyone, and exceptions can be made if you are in the right position, or if you know the right people. See the fact that we all just got detention, even though I’m pretty sure you knew what we did as soon as you talked to me, Maia, Lils, and the Weasleys last year. And I learned about plausible deniability and deliberate misinterpretation, and how people in positions of authority sometimes have to use their discretion about how much they actually want to admit that they know. _

_I have also learned what it feels like to fight Suggestivity Solution and the Candid Concoction, how the laws of Magical Britain and the rules of Hogwarts differ, way more than I ever wanted to know about the anatomy of puppies, and ethical choices, and what is required for hospital-quality brewing. I can’t believe I thought you were strict about methods before… I learned that there are at least six different potions that do not work to get the smell of Queasejelly out of my hair, how to do a non-verbal, wandless finite on myself, and that even after the Chamber, there are still things that would make me voluntarily choose to be obliviated. (Though I wish I knew what that was, exactly.)_

_I learned that I can’t trust allies or even friends with everything. I did not believe you would poison me, even to teach me a lesson, and I was obviously wrong. I also did not believe that anyone would talk about the Conspiracy, and someone clearly did, because there was no reason for you to know Luna was involved if they didn’t talk. I bet it was Morgana, because she’s still a prefect. So I guess I can also say I learned that everyone has a price._

_I learned that it’s easier to break up a friendship than I thought – Aerin has hardly talked to the rest of us since Easter – but that secrets and adventures are good for making friends, too. I got Ginny as a kind of friend out of it, even if the twins are complete wankers. And I would never have met Luna without the Conspiracy._

_From the Conspiracy itself, I learned what it’s like to be under Veritaserum, and my sneaking around skills got much better, even if you don’t approve of how we used those skills. As for what happened in the Chamber, well… you know what I learned there, and I don’t know if I would have, otherwise, and I’m glad I do know that, now, even if I’m not happy about it, so I guess I’m okay with how that turned out. I’m not saying there weren’t things we could have done differently – there definitely were, and I’m sure the others came up with things I didn’t think of – but I think the most important thing I learned is that it could have gone worse._

_Much, much worse._

_From something going wrong in the questioning, to the Chamber, to our punishment, we were lucky. We got off easy, and that is definitely something I think we will all consider before the next time we come up with some big, reckless plan and throw ourselves into it because we feel helpless or scared. Those aren’t good reasons to do anything, and we should always stop and think about what we’re doing and why before we do it._

##### Severus

Hours later, Severus dropped the last commented-upon scroll back into the basket, set aside his quill, and rubbed his eyes. He had not expected the children to be so… insightful. It appeared that he had taught them even better than he thought. Some had shown clear remorse and repentance for their actions, but others – more than he had expected – stood by their initial decision, even when they had not fully comprehended the extent of their actions prior to their detentions.

The Weasleys were surprisingly rational creatures, though he snorted at the one who said they were daring, not stupid. He did give them _some_ credit for managing the brewing, and for taking the punishments he decreed (for this and in the past) without complaint. And he had no small degree of respect for their negotiation abilities, when they finally came forward (after their last detention of the term) with the idea of harvesting the Basilisk for ingredients. (Though the suggestion itself was unnecessary, as Severus had noted the creature, already under a stasis ward, when he went into the Chamber to inspect the remnants of the rituals used there.) He had, eventually, agreed to pay them a ten percent finders’ fee in exchange for their silence on the matter of his removing the obliviates on their sister’s mind (a small price to pay to avoid the combined wrath of Molly Weasley and Albus Dumbledore). He was rather looking forward to his discussions with the goblins and the vampires over the winter hols – they would pay hand over fist for basilisk venom and bone.

But that was still weeks away. In the meanwhile, he was (still) vaguely irritated that Granger had already been aware of basic ethical principles, and included them in her initial decision, though that would explain why she was so steadfast in her defense of her own actions. Well, that and the fact that she clearly had a bit of an arguably justifiable victimization complex going on in regards to her muggleborn heritage. He would have to continue chipping away at her arrogance in their research meetings.

The thought was not so abhorrent as it might have been. She seemed to be doing an exemplary job thusfar with the reports he had assigned her outside of class (though he would never admit as much aloud), and discussed her external reading with an intelligence which far outstripped many of his colleagues. Yes, her opinions and analyses were often childishly underinformed, but he was certain that, given time, he could shape her into a true scholar, rather than simply a useful research assistant. One simply did not let potential like that escape due to a few (admittedly obnoxious) personality flaws.

He was far more irritated that nearly every one of the ten students had, at one point or another, with varying degrees of accusation, noted that they felt their actions were justified by the apparent apathy of the Headmaster and his fellow Heads of House. Even _Lovegood_ had mentioned it, albeit as a straightforward explanation. And speaking of Lovegood, why in the nine _bloody_ hells was she quoting Gellert Grindelwald at him? He couldn’t decide if that, or the fact that she referred to the Isolation Hex as ‘time out’ was more disturbing. But he digressed.

At least the younger Miss Moon had recognized that he had likely tried to persuade the other Heads to question their own students (which he had), but it was absolutely _infuriating_ to learn that Filius had been approached by multiple students from his own house, and done nothing! For potentially _months_ before the Headmaster informed them that he had everything under control! Severus had been forced to spend all his spare time looking for ways to track a wraith or trace possession throughout the castle, as he was expressly forbidden to question the students of other houses ‘willy nilly’ (Pomona’s words). And this was the first he was hearing of Dumbledore attempting to _legilimize_ Mary Elizabeth and Miss Moon. What on earth was the man thinking? Did he not realize that he had already turned the Dark Lord against him with that tactic? It was no wonder that she had insisted that he be the one to examine her memories of the Chamber.

He sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose, and strongly considering whether half-past five in the morning was too late for alcohol. He had refrained while marking, though it had been a close call with Miss Yaxley’s essay. He had not realized how close to the surface his concerns for the parallels between the Death Eaters and this latest crop of Slytherins were until she had put forth her analysis of his actions, so nearly cleverly concealed as thanks. _Flatterer. Bah._ He was no Horace Slughorn, eager to overlook impertinence if hidden behind a pleasant façade. And it was not too late at all, he decided, summoning a glass and a bottle. It wasn’t as though he had to teach in the morning.

It wasn’t exactly as though his fears were unfounded. The elder Miss Moon’s words (‘ _I think what bothers me the most is that I never said no, even when I realized that it wasn’t harmless. I thought it was for the best at first, and then it was easier to just keep going along with it,’_ and ‘ _I was against the plan from the start, but somehow I still got carried away_ ,’) struck far too close to home. Had he not heard the same from Regulus Black? From Seth Kelvin, and Thaddeus Kronk? They were all dead, now, for their sins and their weak hearts. Hadn’t he had a similar realization himself, when he finally saw that the Dark Lord was, truly, mad? Half of those who pled _imperius_ in the end had had their own doubts. If they had not been marked, they would surely have fled before That Night, uncomfortable with the violent turn their political ambitions had taken. Ambrose, Yaxley’s father, had been one of them, he recalled, though Caspian Wilkes had thrown himself into the carnage with as much abandon as anyone.

Severus raised a silent toast to his fallen one-time companions. The whisky burned his throat, even as he felt it ease the tension behind his eyes. He let his head droop.

He wondered if he had been too obvious, lately, in his encouragement of free thought within Slytherin. It was a position he was quite certain he could defend from both sides, should it become necessary –the Headmaster would believe that he was encouraging the children to think before they acted, without turning them so far from their parents’ values that the Dark Lord would suspect his loyalty. The Dark Lord would accept that he was training the soldiers of the future to act with intelligence – unlike so many of their worthless parents – aiding the Cause without losing his place within Dumbledore’s trust by blatantly encouraging the Dark Arts or the like.

It would be harder to defend the shift he had encouraged within the house toward true neutrality, waiting to see what would become of Mary Potter, and protecting their new muggleborn student. Perhaps he could say that he feared losing his position should he treat those children differently from the other Snakes. But the effects within the House were already becoming evident. Some students he would have expected to eagerly await the Dark Lord’s return – Flint, Montague, even Rosier and Avery, who had graduated the year prior – had expressed their reservations, and their willingness to see whether and how the young Potter managed to integrate herself into society. Given another five years, well… he hardly dared think it, not at this point.

In truth, Miss Yaxley was correct – he did not want his students to become Death Eaters – for in the deepest, truest recesses of his mind, he was _not_ the Dark Lord’s pawn any longer, and he would not see his former students fall on his information. But neither could he expect them to align themselves with Dumbledore, simply for a lack of better alternatives. If, and it was a big _if_ , Mary Elizabeth could become a leader in her own right – a neutral, traditionalist sort of leader, perhaps – would they rally behind her, these children raised in the wake of war, taught to see how their parents had gone wrong – how _he_ had gone wrong?

He snorted, and shook his head at his own folly. Perhaps in time. But as of now, Mary Potter was little more than a slightly tarnished figurehead – the Heir of Slytherin Who Lived – not any sort of player in her own right. He would watch and wait, and continue to teach his little Snakes to think, he decided, downing his third drink and heading for bed. There would be plenty of time to worry about the future of Slytherin and Magical Britain in the morning. Or afternoon, as the case might be.

 


	20. A Pair of Unpleasant Revelations

###  Monday, 29 November 1993

#### Hogwarts

The optimistic relief Mary felt at having finally completed her detentions lasted a surprisingly short period of time. It was less than two full days, in fact, before she was brought back to Earth by a pair of Monday morning conversations.

On that particular Monday, there was little in the manner of interesting conversation at the Slytherin table: the next Slytherin Quidditch match was not until January, and after the Board voted on the new professorial standards, interest in the morning papers (aside from the daily ‘Has Sirius Black been spotted?’ check) had waned considerably. Most of the other third-year girls seemed to have taken up skipping the morning meal entirely, and Mary’s Minions (as Dave and Alex had taken to calling themselves, much to Mary’s embarrassment) were animatedly discussing Professor McGonagall’s end-of-term exam.

Given the lack of stimulating alternatives, Mary was eavesdropping on less-than-discrete conversations around herself. Her ear had been caught by a mention of her name, and she was _not_ pleased by what followed.

“And Mary Potter was there?” an excitable voice said, somewhere behind her, at the Hufflepuff table.

Shrill Ria Prewett, _her_ voice all too familiar from evenings in the common room and Daphne’s tea parties, answered in a most self-satisfied tone. “Yes, she was.”

“Can you introduce me? I really, really want to meet her!”

“We’re having one last get-together before the hols, you know,” Prewett hinted. “I could ask Miss Daphne if there are any seats available…”

This was news to Mary. Neither Daphne nor Lilian had mentioned an upcoming tea party.

“Do it!” the Hufflepuff urged Prewett excitedly.

“Hmm… I don’t know…firsties aren’t _really_ supposed to invite people…”

“Pleeease,” the other girl whined.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the Slytherin said, “but you’ll owe me a favor.”

“Done! Anything!”

Mary squirmed uncomfortably. Prewett probably wouldn’t make her do anything _that_ bad, but really… an open ended favor for an introduction to _Mary_? Not even an actual introduction, really, but just a _potential_ introduction?

“Excellent,” Prewett said smugly. “I’ll let you know.”

It was about that time that the hall started clearing out, as students made their way to their first lessons of the day (or the library, or the commons, or anywhere but the now-owl-infested breakfast tables). Mary joined them, heading back to Slytherin to locate her wayward friend – they had agreed to practice Snape’s latest Sneaking Spell (a footfall-concealing charm) in their free before DADA. She probably would not have thought too much of the conversation (even first-year Slytherins could be opportunistic, after all), save for the fact that she overheard _another_ conversation as she approached the third-year girls’ junction.

“So you’ll make sure she’s there?” Daphne’s voice floated out of the bathroom.

“We’ve been there the last two times, haven’t we?” Lilian yawned in response.

Mary began to have an unpleasant suspicion, which was only confirmed by Daphne’s next words. “Good. I’ve got Prewett, Greengrass, and Avery recruiting among the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. All the little girls want to meet the famous Mary Potter.”

“Yeah, yeah, as long as you keep following through on your end, we’ll be there.”

“I can’t _believe_ you!” The topic of their conversation wrenched open the half-propped door and shouted at her so-called best friend before she could stop herself.  “You’re using me like some kind of – of _publicity stunt?_ ”

The two blondes stared, stupefied by the sudden intrusion, one wearing nothing but a towel, the other halfway through carefully applying glamor and hair-straightening charms.

_“Excuse me_?” Daphne asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I _just_ heard Prewett talking to some Hufflepuff, trading favors to _maybe_ have a _chance_ to meet me – so how does it work?” she scoffed. “You,” she pointed at Daphne, “get more people showing up to your little parties, and whatever favors and shit they offer just to get in, and exclusivity and whatever, and _you_ ,” she pointed at Lilian, “it’s your job to get me there, at the right place at the right time – but what’s _in it_ for you?”

Lilian didn’t answer, her mouth hanging open in horrified, half-awake shock.

“WELL?!” she screeched, her voice rivalling Prewett’s in the echoing confines of the tiled room.

“I – I just…”

“You. Just. What. Lilian?! You just sold me out… for what? Popularity? Your own invite? What?!”

The normally bold and cheerful Slytherin muttered something incomprehensible under her breath, staring at her feet.

“ _What_ was that?” Mary asked sharply, in her most sarcastic tone. “I didn’t _quite_ catch it,” she glared.

“I said I did it for your own good, okay?” Lilian almost snapped back. “How else are you going to meet the right people and start having a presence in society?”

“You _what?_ Bullocks, Lilian Moon! That is the _biggest_ load of dragon dung I’ve ever heard! And you know what, even if it wasn’t, I don’t need _or_ want you fucking _manipulating_ me _for my own good_!”

“I just –”

“No! Fuck you! I don’t want to hear it!” she turned on her heel and stormed out, as abruptly as she had arrived, ignoring Lilian’s voice behind her, calling for her to come back.

#### Moaning Myrtle’s Loo

For the first time she could ever remember, Mary Potter willingly skipped a class. Two, in fact, as she elected to hole up in Moaning Myrtle’s loo and cry her eyes out. Entrance to the Chamber of Secrets and whiny ghost aside, she was much less likely to be disturbed there than anywhere else. Even in her bedroom, Lilian could have stood outside and talked at her.

And she really, really didn’t want to hear her excuses.

She would much rather brood in privacy (ghost notwithstanding) over the fact that her best friend in the entire world had decided that she was too – what, incompetent, or something? – to make her own choices, and _tricked_ her into doing something she hated, with people she didn’t care about, because _she_ thought it was _for Mary’s own good_. _If_ that was even really why she did it, and not just what she thought would make Mary least angry with her.

What gave her the right? It was one thing when Snape did it. He was a grown-up and a teacher and a spy, and she should have known better than to trust _him_. But Lilian was her _friend_. And hadn’t they just spent three months learning _not_ to make other people’s choices for them? Fucking _hell_!

Thoughts of Lilian and her blatant, inexcusable betrayal led to thoughts of Snape poisoning her, and then of Sirius Black, whom she could at least be angry at without any sort of intervening ‘she didn’t do it to be mean’ or ‘it was only to teach me a lesson’ type thoughts. She was halfway through constructing a chain of adjectives that she thought might adequately describe her mangy, parent-betraying, pestilential, powers-bedamned excuse for a godfather when the last person she expected to hear knocked lightly on the door to the stall where she was hiding.

“Lizzie?”

Mary sniffled. “Maia?” Merlin, she sounded pathetic. Clearing her throat and trying again didn’t really help, either.

Hermione unlocked the door with a quick _alohomora_ and swept her into a hug. “You missed class. Lilian told me what happened. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she lied, brushing past the older girl to wash her face.

“Liar.”

The Ravenclaw’s wry tone earned her a wobbly smile. “So does this mean we’re speaking again?”

Hermione sighed dramatically. “I guess so.” Her tone became more serious as she continued: “I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. It just made me really mad to think that you’d rather hang out with those idiots, and then I didn’t know how to bring it up and apologize without getting mad again, and then I got caught up in other things, and, well… I’m sorry. I know you don’t really like Greengrass and Davis more than me, and no matter how much it sounds like it sometimes, you’re not really falling for their anti-muggle, pureblood supremacy attitude. I haven’t been angry about it for a while, I just… It worries me, sometimes, the way you act like you have to do things to fit in with them, the other Slytherins. You and Lili, both. And I didn’t know what to do or say, so I just… didn’t want to bring it up again.”

Mary was shocked at Hermione’s interpretation of their last conversation, stuck on the fact that she had somehow given the impression that she was falling prey to the pureblood supremacists’ ideology just because she hadn’t been able to get out of Daphne’s stupid tea parties. _Daphne_ wasn’t even a pureblood supremacist! She _was_ probably more traditionalist than progressive, along with most of Slytherin House, but she wasn’t _Malfoy_ , for crying out loud. Or maybe Hermione was reading too much into the fact that Mary hadn’t wanted to be involved with the MSA? But she had _told_ her why on that account! Did her first friend truly think so little of her?

“Maia, I don’t think purebloods are any better than anyone else,” she sniffled. “I just… they’re my housemates. It’s harder not to spend time with them than you think, especially in public – first rule, you know?”

“I _know_ that. Isn’t that what I’m saying?” Hermione rolled her eyes, then added, “Slytherin solidarity is _highly_ overrated.”

Mary shrugged noncommittally, unwilling to get into an argument again so soon after the last one (apparently) ended, especially since she had gotten an actual apology, this time, rather than several weeks of frosty silence followed by a gradual, unresolved thaw, which was the usual pattern for their disagreements. “It was more that I didn’t want to give Daphne the cut in public – she’s not that bad, really, and I like Blaise and Theo – but it may be too late for that, anyway.”

“Tell me about it?” the older girl suggested, scourgifying a section of floor so they could sit without worrying about Myrtle’s toilet germs.

Mary sighed, leaning against Hermione’s side, and wondering when she had gotten so much taller. “It’s just… I hate being used. Manipulated. I hate this whole _girl who lived_ thing, and Lilian _knows_ that…” once she started talking, she found it was hard to stop, not entirely like writing her thoughts out for Snape’s last detention. And, miracle of miracles, Hermione didn’t interrupt, just making the occasional vaguely understanding noise and letting her prattle.

Eventually she ran out of things to say, even about that fucking Judas Sirius Black, her mouth dry from going on and on, and slightly headachy from crying. “What about you?” she asked croakily. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

Hermione laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. “Oh, you know, reading, homework, studying for the O-Levels… at this rate, I think I should be able to take them by summer.”

“ _This_ summer?” Mary sat up, shocked. “But didn’t you say you’d been held back to Year 7 again?”

The Ravenclaw snorted. “Yes, but I was arguing to join Year 9 before I got my Hogwarts letter. And Year 11 is half review, anyway. It’s not so much, really.”

“Yeah, right. How much have you been using that thing?” the younger girl asked, nodding at the place where the time turner lay beneath her friend’s robes.

She flushed slightly as she said, “Um… as much as possible?”

“So how old are you, then?”

“Fourteen and… almost seven months,” Hermione answered promptly. “Give or take a few days.”

Mary was only thirteen and four months, but Hermione had always been one of the oldest students in their year, while Mary was one of the youngest. It took a minute for her to work out how old she _ought_ to have been. “ _Four extra months?_ ” she hissed at the Ravenclaw, who nodded, slightly abashed. Mary laughed. “Well, I guess that explains where you found the time to get four _years_ ahead in your muggle studies.”

“I’m not that far ahead _yet_ ,” she shoved the Slytherin playfully. “I just said I _will_ be, in another seven or nineteen months.”

The (ever increasingly) younger girl couldn’t help but snort at the absurdity of that statement, though she also couldn’t help but wonder what the bloody hell Hermione had been ‘caught up in’ if she had had so much extra time on hand, and still hadn’t gotten over their latest spat until she heard that Mary and Lilian had had a falling out. Before she had a chance to ask, though, the Ravenclaw changed the subject: “I’ll be sixteen by then, anyway, so really, right on target to take the exams.”

It was rather sobering to think that by the time Mary’s fourteenth birthday rolled around, Hermione would already have been sixteen for half a summer. They sat quietly for a long moment while they – or she, at least – pondered that fact, and wondered what it would mean for their friendship. Would they start growing apart? Maybe they already had, if Hermione could so-easily not speak to her for what Mary now realized was nearly two months on her side of things.

“Hey,” the time-traveler said suddenly.

“Yeah?” Mary answered hesitantly, fearing that the older girl had somehow sensed her sudden anxiety.

Thankfully, it seemed that if Hermione’s thoughts had been following the same path, she was of a mind to prevent any further drifting apart. “Do you want to spend the hols at my parents’ house this year? Make a proper muggle Christmas of it? It’d give us a bit of time to catch up.”

Mary didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes. Absolutely.” Hermione grinned, and the Slytherin felt awful adding, “but I don’t know if I can. I’d have to ask the Professor, and you know she’s not even keen on me going out to the pitch anymore.”

The bushy-haired bookworm just rolled her eyes. “Sirius Black has managed to break into the school at least once already. You’re really much safer in a random muggle house, without a single dementor or psychotic murderer in sight. I’m sure there’s arithmancy to prove it.”

Both girls laughed aloud at that. “Right. If she makes a fuss, I’ll sic you and Professor Vector on her.”

“Don’t be silly,” Hermione grinned, pulling herself up by a sink and giving Mary a hand, too. “Professor Vector wouldn’t need any help at all. She’d just _logic_ Professor McGonagall to death. Lunch?”

“Sure. I’ll sit with you, if you don’t mind. Not sure I want to see the others yet.”

“Well, you’ll have to sit with my younger self, just don’t tell me too much of what we talked about? I can’t be seen twice, so I’m going to grab a snack in the kitchens.”

Mary hovered indecisively, sincerely tempted to join _this_ version of Hermione and skive off on the Great Hall, before deciding that she couldn’t cave to that sort of weakness. Besides, she should apologize to Remus and Professor Flitwick for missing their classes. At least if she _had_ to miss classes to have a sulk, she thought ruefully, it was with professors who would be inclined to give her a pass. “All right, I’ll see you… later?”

“Later, earlier, whatever. I know what you mean,” Hermione shrugged, and pulled the Invisibility Cloak out of her pocket. “Thank you again for letting me use this,” she added, her voice coming out of nowhere. “It’s been a lifesaver, honestly.”

Mary rolled her eyes, and refrained from reminding the Ravenclaw that she wanted it back as soon as she mastered some other effective form of invisibility. “No problem.”

But there was no answer: her invisible friend had already gone.

###  Saturday, 4 December 1993

#### Hogwarts Library

After the uncomfortable revelation of Lilian’s betrayal of their friendship, the remainder of Mary’s week passed quickly. They were speaking again, albeit reluctantly on Mary’s part, because Flint had threatened them with Gauntlet Drills if they didn’t get over their ‘angsty fucking teenage girl selves.’ (Apparently there was no place on a Quidditch team for personal enmity, any more than there was for politics.) She still hadn’t let Lilian try to explain herself, though, playing Hermione’s usual part of avoiding the other girl whenever possible. Lilian seemed to have gotten the hint that Mary didn’t want to talk to her, and was giving her some space.

The conclusion of detentions meant that Mary’s standing first-Saturday-of-the-month meeting with Professor McGonagall, normally scheduled for ten in the morning, was free to go as long as necessary, without Mary having to make some excuse to leave. This turned out to be a good thing, because Hermione had written to her parents about Christmas, and Emma had written to the Professor directly, which meant the meeting started with a very long, very serious discussion about Mary’s safety, and an argument about the relative merits of staying in the mostly-deserted school versus going the Grangers’.

Mary thought she had won early on, when the Professor conceded that perhaps it was safer for her to holiday elsewhere, but then she had suggested the Urquharts’, which Mary didn’t really have a good reason to reject. In the end, though, puppy-dog eyes worthy of Blaise and the argument that she had never had a proper muggle Christmas, and wanted to experience that side of her heritage carried the day.

As far as arguments went, it was a rather pleasant one – far nicer than when they had fought over whether Mary could go to Hogsmeade. They ordered sandwiches from the kitchens halfway through, and then talked about Mary’s parents and the Marauders afterward. The Slytherin was still trying to figure out exactly why Remus and Snape apparently hated each other. This had been an ongoing concern, especially since hearing that they had gotten into some sort of a fight while she was in hospital, but whenever she attempted to ask the Professor or Remus directly, they changed the subject, and she hardly dared ask _Snape_. This had only resulted in her attempting to be more subtle, poking around the edges of their relationship, asking, for example, about the Marauders, Lily, and Snape as kids.

Unfortunately, she learned nothing pertinent. She did learn that her father shared her fondness for treacle tart, and that her mother and Snape had kissed under a mistletoe in their third year, which the Professor found particularly amusing. Mary couldn’t imagine kissing anyone, herself, nor imagine anyone kissing Professor Snape, _especially_ the girl he’d once described as the closest he’d ever had to a sister. It was actually difficult to imagine Professor Snape as a kid in general. She wondered, fleetingly, if she was old enough yet that he would tell her about his and Lily’s relationship. She suspected there was far more to the story than Professor McGonagall knew.

After the Professor declared that she had to begin working on her grading, Mary retired to the library to join Blaise and Theo. Professor Snape had taken to giving them written assignments for their Slytherin Emergency Resources, Protocols, and Conduct Class every other week or so (along with the obligatory practice for their Sneaking Spells). So far they had researched the best way to deal with Acromantulae, Dragons, Manticores, Vampires, and Trolls. (Basilisks were, apparently, too rare a threat to make the list.) They discussed each creature and associated evacuation plans when applicable in the following week’s lesson. This week’s assignment was on how to recognize and respond to Werewolves.

The three Slytherins had begun their research with every intent to start writing that paper early, but had quickly gotten distracted brainstorming ways to use different simple spells for Dueling Club – an assignment Mary had entirely forgotten about. Blaise’s idea was to do the exact opposite of Mary, using Banishing Charms instead of Summoning. Theo, on the other hand, had been flipping through Charms texts for ages – so long that Mary had actually resorted to reading the werewolf books to stave off boredom.

“Have you two seen this list?” she asked, appalled. Blaise _hmm’d_ , not looking up from his own book. “‘Signs of an untransformed werewolf include: difficult to conceal and impossible to heal scars, from self-inflicted injuries when confined during full moon; illness and/or agitation in the days immediately before and after the full moon; aversion to silver in all forms; noted preferences for raw or undercooked meat; brutish temperament, with tendencies toward short-temperedness and irrationality; incapable of genuine human affection…’ They’re only wolves one night a month!”

Blaise laughed. “Sometimes I forget you’re muggle-raised. First off, they _can_ transform up to two days on either side of the full moon – three if they’re really powerful – and secondly, they’re _always werewolves_ , regardless of the number of legs. Not humans. Not wolves. _Werewolves_. Totally different.”

“Surely you don’t believe that they’re all pedophiles and cannibals, and – what was it – ‘ruled only by instinct to propagate their Curse’?”

“Is it really cannibalism if they’re not humans?” Theo asked. “What do you think of _incarcarious_? If you put the right intention behind it, it gives you limited control over the ropes.”

“Takes too long to say,” Blaise said. “And no, it’s not, but ‘cannibal’ sounds better than ‘homovore,’ which is what _this_ book uses.” He wrinkled his nose at the pages and tossed it away. “And now I can’t stop wondering if we could convince the House Elves to make Steak Tartare.”

“Ew. No. Just… no. You do _not_ go from cannibalism to ‘we should have raw meat for dinner.’”

“Weak stomach, Potter? Pity. It can be absolutely _delicious_ if done well.”

“Steak Tartare or cannibalism?” Theo snarked.

“Well, we did have an _awful_ lot of pork the summer after Husband Number Four disappeared… or at least Mother _said_ it was pork…”

Mary could not for the life of her decide whether he was serious. _Probably_ not, but he said it with _such_ a straight face that she couldn’t be sure, the same as when he said he had seen three of his previous step-fathers die.

Theo, apparently, had no qualms about playing along, if he was. “Shall I ask my father to send your mother the grimoire with the muggle recipes? I’m _sure_ there was one where you were supposed to consume the White Goat after the sacrifice was blessed…”

“Sure. Black magic makes everything taste sweeter.”

Theo’s cool façade cracked first, and soon both boys were laughing hysterically.

“Oh, knock it off, you two!”

“Come off it, Mary!”

“Yeah, we’re just having a go – Powers, the look on your face…”

“Don’t worry, my mother’s not a cannibal,” Blaise smirked.

Theo’s smile faded a little, though, as he admitted, “I think we actually do have a book like that, but it hasn’t been used for _centuries_ – not since they made muggle-hunting illegal.”

“Wait – muggle hunting was _legal_? Like actually hunting and killing _people_?”

Theo shrugged. “Yeah. It was one of the first things that went after the Statute of Secrecy was put in place, muggle hunting in general, and all spells or rituals that required human sacrifice were outlawed in… the late 1700s, I think. But there’s still new vampires being made every few years.”

“ _Seriously?”_

“Yep,” Blaise nodded. “There’s a movement on the continent for ‘ethical vampirism’ – using condemned murderers or hospice patients for the Change Ritual.”

“Bet that’s going as well as the last Black proposal to bring back Muggle Hunting,” the paler boy scoffed.

“Pretty much.”

“Wait – what?”

“Back in the sixties, this old bat called Araminta Black tried to bring back Muggle Hunting. Completely mad. There was no chance, obviously. That family’s been a bit cracked for ages,” Theo explained.

“Glad it’s not just my godfather, I guess.”

“Oh, no, definitely not,” Blaise smirked. “My mum was friends with Bella Black in school. Apparently Sirius Black was actually one of the sane ones. Well, relatively. I heard,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “that the Blacks used muggle sacrifices for Yule right up until the house fell with the Dark Lord.”

“You’re having me on again,” Mary accused.

“Nope. It’s true. Just because it’s illegal wouldn’t have stopped the likes of Bella Black from killing whomever she liked.”

Mary shivered, and then Theo said, “C’mon, Blaise. Enough stories. What about _ventus_?”

“The Breeze Charm?”

“It’s simple, very quick to cast, and can affect both whoever I’m dueling and the environment.”

“Well, yeah, in a _real_ fight… but we’re going to be on plain, boring dueling platforms.”

“What about _Aeolus_ or _Kano Kyklona_?” Mary asked, shaking off her unease to peer over Theo’s shoulder at the more advanced wind charms.

“ _Aeolus_ has a much higher power input, and I don’t even want to try mastering the Cyclone Maker in the next… two hours.”

“Three if we skip dinner,” Blaise pointed out, but at Theo’s unimpressed look, he added: “Fine, I take your point. But Mary’s right. _Aeolus_ would be better, especially since you’re not going to have anything to work with as far as the environment goes. It’ll take more power to push your opponent around.”

“All right. _Aeolus_ it is. Now – werewolves?”

Mary looked back at her book. “Seriously – cannibals and pedophiles? Do they really expect people to believe that? I mean, even if they do hunt people, _pedophiles_?”

Blaise groaned, and let his head drop to the table, mumbling complaints. “It’s because they target children to change. All the Creature Literature in this country is like that – twisted and prejudiced and basically propaganda for the Light. And weirdly sexual. Centaurs are rapists, Incubi and Succubi are going to seduce you into a life of wanton sin, Werewolves are pedophiles, Vampires will fuck your mind so well you beg them to bleed you dry – and no one questions it because _everyone knows it’s true._ ”

“Yes, Blaise,” Theo said drily. “Tell us again how Italy is a little Utopia of Creature Equality.”

The Italian snorted. “It’s no France or America, but at least it’s better than here. And that’s saying a _lot_ ,” he added, “seeing as how Rome’s still Catholic central!”

“So sad for you that mummy insisted on her _alma mater_ ,” Mary managed, nearly as drily as Theo.

“Oh, shut up, or I’ll send you _La Noirceur Sauvage_ for Yule.”

“The wild… blackness?”

“Darkness,” Theo corrected her. “It’s a brick, but probably better reading than any of _that_ rubbish. In English there’s _Hairy Snout, Human Heart_ , but that’s about it.”

“Nah,” the darker boy objected. “Too sappy. I liked _Out of the Wyld_ better.”

“But we don’t live in Canada!”

“So what? Werewolves are werewolves. Just because we had that nutter Greyback… seriously, half the problems werewolves have in this country can be traced back to him.”

“Who?” Mary asked, at the same time Theo said, “Like you’d know.”

“I’ve met the Alpha of the Superior-Pukaskwa Pack,” Blaise said defensively. “Bobby Shank – bit intense, but a nice enough bloke.”

Theo just shook his head, while Mary looked on in confusion. “You have _got_ to start inviting me along on your vacations,” the shorter boy said enviously.

“You’ve had a standing invitation since we were six, you prat. It’s not my fault your father won’t let you come.”

Theo scowled, and Mary decided to try to get the subject back on track. “So… werewolves?”

“Well, the first thing is that there are two kinds of werewolves,” Blaise began to lecture. “There’s the ones who fight the curse, like in _Hairy Snout, Human Heart_ and the ones that embrace the curse. Most of the werewolves in Magical Britain are the first kind. The laws here don’t really have a lot of accommodation for the ones that embrace it.

“Werewolves that fight the curse tend to be more scarred and ill before and after the Moon, because they lock themselves up and hurt themselves during it, and the curse gets stronger with the moon, so it’s harder to fight it at that time of the month. If you ask me, being short-tempered is because they always have to fight the curse, like having a headache or something all the time. They talk about the Curse or the Wolf like a demon in the back of their mind. Let’s see… what else… They tend to really like chocolate, because it cuts back on the mental effects of Dark Magic, and weakens the Curse. Oh, and they sometimes take Wolfsbane, which is a potion that helps them keep their rational minds even in wolf-form – normally ‘the Wolf’ takes over, then, if they don’t have it – trying to pass on the Curse to any uninfected human with no thought to their own safety or anything.

“Werewolves that accept the curse aren’t as scarred, because they usually live on reservations, where they can run with a Pack on the Moon. They get more agitated as it gets closer, and stronger as the curse reinforces their natural strength. Fighters are strongest near new moon, because that’s when the curse is weakest. I wouldn’t call even the Pack wolves ‘brutish,’ but there is a sort of animal intensity about them – it’s definitely noticeable, when you walk in a room. They’re the ones that ‘aren’t capable of true human emotion’ or ‘little more than animals’ – kind of halfway between a wizard and a wolf, regardless of their form. They tend to think in simpler terms, and don’t do magic, or write about themselves like the Fighters do. All the books about them are written by outsiders. Oh! And they’re the ones who target children, specifically, for the Change.

“Most of the Pack wolves feel sorry for the Fighters, because the Fighters haven’t caught onto the fact that it’s much easier to just give in, and live their lives in harmony with the Curse. Most Fighters, at least from what I’ve read, consider Pack wolves weak, and giving in to be giving up on their humanity. The longer a Fighter holds out before giving in to the Curse, the lower their chances of adjusting well to the new lifestyle. Both have weaknesses to silver, obviously, are allergic to the genus _Aconitum_ , and are repelled by the same wards. Aside from silver or aconite-poisoning, they can be killed by decapitation, fire, drowning, _light_ battle magic, and neutral or dark curses stronger than the werewolf curse and their innate magic combined.” The boy paused for a moment, as though mentally reviewing his speech, then added, “Or another werewolf, I guess, if there’s a dominance fight, but I think that’s rare.”

Mary was still stuck on the description of werewolves that fight the curse, because scarred and ill around the full moon reminded her uncomfortably of Remus – as did the fondness for chocolate. He had even missed class earlier that week, according to Hermione. Snape had had to cover for him, leading the girls to speculate that he had a Time Turner of his own, since he had _also_ been in Potions class that day. And hadn’t Snape brought Remus a potion on the day of the first Hogsmeade trip, making cryptic remarks about how Remus’ illness wasn’t life-threatening _to him_? Could Remus Lupin be a werewolf? Would he have told her if he was? She hoped so, but rather doubted it, if the book in front of her was typical of the Magical British attitude toward Werewolves.

Dragging her mind back to the conversation at hand, she asked, “How do you _know_ all that?”

It was Theo who answered, grinning. “When Blaise was about seven, he really wanted to be a werewolf when he grew up.”

Blaise punched him in the arm, hard, making the smaller boy blot the notes he had been taking on the mini-lecture with a yelp. “Shut up! It’s still better than Draco! He wanted to be a dragon until he was ten,” he explained to Mary, before turning back to Theo. “At least werewolf is a realistic back-up plan!”

“Back up plan to _what?_ ” Mary asked, legitimately confused. “Inheriting all your mum’s money and marrying Greengrass?”

“Yeah, well, you know, if that gets boring…” Blaise shrugged with supreme nonchalance. This set off another round of good-natured ribbing, which carried the three Slytherins through until dinner, and then Dueling Club.

Despite the fact that the club meeting was both ridiculous and enjoyable, Mary couldn’t shake her suspicions about Remus, which made it rather less fun than it could have been. She didn’t want to ask him outright – accusing someone of being a werewolf without proof sounded like a great way to ruin a friendship. She would, she decided, have to see what else she could find out about the Wolfsbane Potion, and check whether he really had been ill over every full moon since the beginning of term.

###  Wednesday, 8 December 1993

#### Slytherin Commons

It had taken Mary less than a day to convince herself that Remus was, in fact, a werewolf. She had checked the dates of the full moon. One of them had been on the last day of August, and she distinctly recalled Remus looking awful and being exhausted on the train, and for their first class together. She didn’t remember September specifically, but October had been the day of the Hogsmeade trip, and he was clearly ill around the November full moon. She had even looked back through the letters he had sent her since her first year: none of them had been sent on or immediately before or after a full moon.

She had looked up the Wolfsbane potion with Hermione’s help. (Why the older girl had an apparently unlimited pass to the Restricted Section, she decided it was best not to ask.) The potion was supposed to be administered for the entire week of the full moon (three days before and after). That lined up with the date of the Hogsmeade trip, and the description in the book matched what she recalled of the potion itself (served in a goblet with steam coming off it, and sugar made it useless).

Finally, when she had admitted her suspicions to her curious friend, the Ravenclaw had immediately said that made sense, because his boggart took the shape of the full moon. Mary had forgotten this, in the excitement that was her own boggart taking the shape of a dementor, but as far as she was concerned, it made it final.

Remus was a werewolf.

After that, the only question was whether to tell him she knew about it.

Hermione had, somewhat uncharacteristically, urged caution. She was certain that there had to be some way to verify his status before bringing it up. After all, who knew what other kinds of diseases there might be in the magical world that were tied to the phases of the moon? It hadn’t taken much searching at all for her to find a reference to a Werewolf Registry, kept by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. As the information was supposed to be considered a matter of public record, all they had to do was write, requesting a list of werewolves in Magical Britain, and they should soon know officially, one way or the other.

They had sent the owl on Monday, in hopes that it would return before the end of the term.

Unfortunately, it now seemed that Mary was going to have to confront the probable-werewolf sooner rather than later, because Pansy Parkinson, in all her infinite wisdom, had managed to put together the same clues whilst writing _her_ werewolf essay during their Wednesday morning free. Instead of just keeping her bloody mouth shut, she had announced it to the entire study group in the Slytherin House Library, and then run to Prefect Farley, who had called a house meeting for that very evening.

Mary, Blaise, and Theo returned to the already-overfull common room exactly on time, and claimed the sofa occupied by Mary’s Minions. The boys and Nora relocated to the back and arms with much grumbling, but no hesitation, as Astoria Greengrass bounced over to sit on Blaise.

Sean was consulting a piece of parchment, tapping it irritably with his wand. “Has anyone seen Lestrange and Turner?” he called out, his voice magically magnified. “Or the Youngs? Or Firsties Flint, Burke and Bletchley?”

The Youngs appeared in the doorway of the common room at that moment, the younger casting a _tempus_ charm. “Sorry, Moon,” he called, not sounding sorry at all.

“What about the kids?”

“Detention,” Daphne’s little sister yelled. “With McGonagall!”

Sean nodded. “Lestrange and Turner?”

“Probably snogging up on the seventh floor,” someone suggested from the direction of the seventh-year girls’ usual corner, which raised laughs throughout the room.

The seventh-year prefect glared at nothing in particular. “Well, we’re not waiting for them,” he announced. “Prefects, cover the doors. No one leaves until Farley and I give the word.” Nervous giggles and worried whispers rose in response to the normally-easygoing wizard’s pronouncement. The reason became clear, however, as he continued: “Professor Lupin is a werewolf.”

It was as though somebody turned up the volume, from one to eleven. What seemed like half the house leapt to their feet. Mary heard denials for reasons ranging from ‘he can’t be – he’s too nice,’ to ‘even Dumbledore wouldn’t give us a _werewolf_ as the Defense professor!’ and objections like ‘We can’t be taught by a half-breed!’ There were shouts of ‘how do you know?’ and ‘prove it!’ from the more skeptical, and panicked inquiries as to the phase of the moon from others. Several made desperate demands to be allowed to contact their parents (including Draco, whose ‘my father’ been otherwise rare of late). Prefect Tiffald stunned Melinda Lestrange as she made a break for the girls’ dorms. The prefects and NEWT students, who had obviously discussed the issue at some point earlier in the day, waited more-or-less calmly for the initial panic and excitement to abate.

Finally the noise level subsided to the point that Sean’s _sonorous_ could be heard again. “Testing… testing… Will you all _shut up_? ...Okay. Good. Thank you. As I said, Professor Lupin is a werewolf. Professor Snape is aware of this fact.”

Another overwhelming wall of sound erupted, this one primarily concerned with ‘Where is he?’ and ‘Why didn’t he tell us?!’

It subsided much more quickly than the previous, with the assistance of a magnified Quidditch-pitch bellow of “ _SILENCE!”_ from Flint. Mary, seated only a few feet away, rather than a hundred or so above him in open air, winced.

“Quite,” Sean bit out, in what was either an intentional or unintentional impression of the Head Boy. “Thank you, Marcus. If you could all refrain from speaking until I ask for questions…? Otherwise I do imagine we’ll be here all _bloody_ night… Right, then. Professor Lupin is a werewolf.”

“Got that!” some smart-arse interrupted.

“Stuff it, Rowle, or I’ll start taking points!” the prefect snapped. “Just for that, one more time: _Professor Lupin_ is a _werewolf_.”

“What?!” a girl shrieked, coming through the main entrance. Turner, Mary recalled from the train, along with Adrian, who said, “You’ve got to be joking!”

“Do I look like I’m _fucking_ joking, Lestrange? Detention, for the both of you, for being late to a mandatory house meeting.”

Their objections were drowned by everyone else, who wanted to hear more about Professor Lupin being a werewolf, and what, exactly, Professor Snape knew about it.

“Are we _done yet_?” the prefect asked scathingly after yet another minute. “Now keep your mouths shut, or I’ll hex the lot of you, understood?” He glared around at them, uncharacteristically stern, as they nodded. “ _Very well, then._ As I’ve said, Professor Snape is aware of the Lupin situation. The ‘evidence’ is as follows: the heavy scarring on his hands and face is consistent with a werewolf kept confined on the full moon, and you will recall that he tends to be ill and lethargic during the gibbous phases, as well as apparently absent from the school on the evening of the full moon. Last month’s full moon was on the twenty-eighth, the day before Professor Snape covered Lupin’s classes, consistent with reports of captive werewolves injuring themselves during the full moon. We know Professor Snape knows because one of the third years noticed the symptoms and brought them to our attention, after which point Prefect Farley and myself met with him regarding the issue of safety precautions.” He held up a hand against the rising tide of mutters.

“We’ve got to get rid of him!” someone yelled from near the entrance to the boys’ dorms. “It’s not safe!”

“Sit down, Burke!” Farley snapped back, her clear voice carrying to every corner of the commons. “And shut up, before your stupidity infects the entire room! There are safety measures already in place, according to Professor Snape. Professor Lupin offers, and I quote ‘no more danger than the average Defense professor.’ The next full moon is not until the twenty-eighth of December. If you’re worried, go home for the hols. There is no need to act rashly.” She sent a look at Sean, as though offering to let him take over again, but he nodded for her to continue. She took a deep breath before she did so. “We, and I’m speaking for the prefects and all the senior students, here, have decided that _no_ immediate action will be taken on this matter!”

The uproar that greeted this statement was nearly as total as the initial shock of ‘Professor Lupin is a werewolf.’ Farley weathered the storm impassively. When it finally died down, she clarified, “You will _not_ contact your parents. You will _not_ speak to the other underclassmen. You will _not_ treat Professor Lupin with any less respect than he deserves,” (another outburst, to the effect that werewolves deserved no respect whatsoever) “ _because, BECAUSE_ werewolf or not, Remus Lupin is the best Defense professor we have had since Dalworth in ’88, and we, _all_ of the seniors, have agreed that the value of what he has to teach us currently outweighs the danger he may _or may not_ represent.”

(Another outburst, to the effect that the seventh-years were selfishly endangering everyone over their NEWT scores, along with a few fifth-years commenting that they’d actually quite like to pass their OWLs, too.)

“It’s not about the NEWTs, you morons!” Aeronwyn Carpenter spoke up, climbing onto the arm of a sofa, so she could be seen across the room. The morons slowly fell silent as the well-respected witch ranted at them. “Professor Lupin has taught us more than our last three Defense Professors _combined._ He’s taught us the signs of demonic possession, which could have helped us spot the so-called Heir last year, or whatever was wrong with Quirrell the year before! He’s taught us how to check ourselves for obliviation, and how to repel a thrice-cursed _dementor_ – which, in case you’ve all forgotten, helped us hold them off at the Quidditch match _just over a month ago_. He’s taught us how to sustain a paling that can hold off a whole _colony_ of acromantulae, like the one in the Forbidden Forest, and how to take down a sphinx with two spells. Not _once_ has he refused to discuss something that we should have learned _years_ ago, whenever we’ve asked. And so far as the other seniors and I are concerned, _that_ outweighs any danger he might present, _especially_ since he seems to be avoiding the bloody castle when he transforms!”

She sat down again, and the muttering took a turn for the more contemplative, with only the occasional shout along the lines of, ‘But he’s a werewolf!’ and ‘He should be put down like a rabid animal!’ That was the point at which Mary began to truly consider whether she ought to warn Remus that her house was aware of his affliction. The elder Young brother gave the younger students several minutes to dwell on their own lessons with Lupin before he stepped forward to stand beside Sean and Farley.

“I don’t like werewolves,” Young admitted, his low voice carrying a hint of fear. He spoke frankly. “My family has a bad history with them. You say _werewolf,_ and I, like many of you, think of that inhuman creature that calls itself Greyback: a pedophile and a kidnapper and a child-murderer – and the thought of that kind of – of _beast_ lurking in the halls of Hogwarts makes my blood run cold. But even I can see that Remus Lupin is _not_ Fenrir Greyback. Lupin’s a _victim_ of Greyback, the same as my Aunt Maggie and my baby cousins. It’s been three months. If Lupin was a beast like the creature that turned him, we’d know it by now.”

This, of course, led to a new round of shouting – this time liberally salted with the words ‘blood traitor,’ directed at Young for his rationality in the face of his bloody family history, and even more people claiming relations who had been killed (or turned) by werewolves in the War. The Youngs, along with most of their friends, defended their relatively moderate stance, backed by the other seniors and prefects, and the underclassmen like Mary who found that they cared more about keeping (and protecting) Professor Lupin than getting rid of Lupin the Werewolf. There was a strong minority of students like Blaise and Theo, whose families were politically in favor of Dark Creature rights, which was almost as large as those who were morally opposed to werewolves’ existence. They had just started to divide themselves into distinct factions, much as they had over the question of whether Salazar Slytherin was a pureblood, when Farley set off a blast like a canon with her wand.

“We will… _WE WILL,”_ she announced as everyone settled into a tense silence, _“_ be making further inquiries over the last few weeks of term! If we find any evidence that suggests _Lupin specifically_ is a danger, or that the protections in place are not adequate to defend us on the full moon, then _and ONLY then_ will we move to have him removed from the school.”

“Snape confirmed he’s a werewolf! That’s proof enough!” a vaguely familiar fourth-year called out.

Both Sean and Farley, still standing united in the small cleared space near the entryway, glared at him, but it was Sean who answered. “Professor Snape informed us that there are adequate protections in place, and advised us only to be aware of the _potential_ threat.”

Farley took over at that point again. “Professor Snape is obviously less than concerned over the threat Lupin actually poses – if he was truly worried for our safety, he would have communicated that concern to us by some manner _before_ the _first_ full moon of the term, rather than waiting for us to bring it to him _after_ the _last_ full moon of the term. We are informing you _now_ because we are aware that if one underclassman has noticed the pattern of Lupin’s illnesses, others are likely not far behind. There will be _no_ panic in Slytherin House! You are better than that!” Farley paused for a few cat-calls and claps. “Consider this a promise: we, the prefects and senior students _will_ keep you informed, and thus _protected_ , to the best of our ability, just as we have done since your first day in this house.” More clapping, and a few sarcastic, unamused laughs greeted this proclamation. “We will not, however, act _hastily_ , like _Gryffindors_ , or _fearfully_ like _Hufflepuffs_. We will not debate endlessly the theoretical dangers of _any_ werewolf, and the importance of policy and the morality of werewolf discrimination as the Ravenclaws would doubtless do.” Several of the more vocal Snakes looked slightly abashed at this, including Theo. “ _We_ will assess the danger that _this particular werewolf_ , in _this particular situation_ poses, and act _accordingly_ , _AFTER_ all due consideration!” The prefect’s words drew forth more cheers, and a bit of genuine applause.

After a moment, Sean cleared his throat. “To review: Professor Lupin is a werewolf. Professor Snape is aware of the situation. We will continue to investigate Professor Lupin’s status and the precautions that have been taken to ensure our safety, and keep you all advised as to the danger he poses. _You_ will not breathe a _word_ of this outside of Slytherin.” Far fewer people objected this time than had when Farley had first announced this, but he repeated it anyway. “You will _not_ breathe a word of this, because _we all_ require Professor Lupin’s services as a Defense instructor – it might be _years_ before we get another decent one – _and he currently poses no more danger to us than the average Defense professor_ – which is considerably less than some!”

“Maccabee!” someone called from the seventh-year girls’ corner. The name was somewhat familiar – Flitwick, Mary recalled, had mentioned him (more angrily than she had ever heard him, which was why it had stuck in her memory) – but she had no idea what he’d done.

Somewhat nearer, Morgana added, “Lockhart, too!”

Farley ignored their outbursts. “Some of you have only half a year’s experience here,” she drawled, before the nervous titters at Sean’s assessment of the Defense professors died out, and more objections could be raised. “Regardless of your youth, we expect you all to have the presence of mind _not_ to draw attention to your awareness of the situation! Slytherins know the value of _discretion_ , and neither _gossip_ nor _tattle_ nor _share information_ without due consideration. _Do you understand?_ ”

A chorus of reluctant acknowledgment rose from the assembled students.

“Excellent,” Sean glared at them, suddenly every bit as serious as he had been at the beginning of the meeting. “Then it should be clear to all of you that if your discretion _fails_ you in this matter, if you _just happen_ to owl your parents or mention in the Great Hall that you heard from a reliable source that there is a werewolf in the school or even _whisper_ it in one of your classes or manage to be thoughtlessly ‘overheard’ in the library, we _will_ find out which of you leaked it, and we _will_ censure you as a House. Slytherins know the value of discretion, and if you prove that _you_ do not, then you mark yourself out as _un-Slytherin_ , and the First Rule will no longer apply to you.” There were a few nervous glances around the commons at that threat. At a guess, Mary would have said that her most vehemently anti-werewolf housemates did not have the kind of numbers they needed to mutiny and reject the decree of the prefects and NEWT students. It looked like they knew it, too. “ _And_ we will let it be known _outside_ the house that any loose-lipped Snake is no Snake at all.”

The protests which followed _that_ statement suggested Slytherin had just found a more immediate danger than a supposedly-non-dangerous werewolf professor more than two weeks away from a full moon. Everyone knew that the only reason the Gryffindors didn’t hex any one of them into jelly was the fact that they always, _always_ had each other’s backs.

“The entire leadership of Slytherin House is united in this decision,” Farley called out. Several of the sixth and seventh-years, including Flint, looked vaguely uncomfortable, so Mary mentally added _reluctantly_ before _united_ , but none of them denied it. “There will be no appeals. Professor Lupin’s status as a werewolf is now _officially_ a Slytherin House Secret. You will keep your mouths shut until such time as we allow you to speak, or you will face the consequences. You are dismissed.”

Mary headed for bed immediately, resolved to talk to Remus as soon as possible. The threat of censure couldn’t really apply if she was only discussing the secret with someone who already knew, could it? Especially since it was really Remus’ secret in the first place. Even if it did, she decided, he deserved to know that the Slytherins knew about him, just in case one of them _did_ out him to their parents or the Prophet. Sunday, she decided. She would visit him on Sunday.

###  Sunday, 12 December 1993

#### Remus Lupin’s Office

##### Remus

Remus had been rather looking forward to tea with Mary. They had been meeting regularly every other week or so throughout the term, and he found it a welcome distraction from the daily grind of lesson planning and endless grading. He had not expected, at first to welcome the constant reminder of Lily and James (and Peter, and Black), but he had found sharing his memories of them with their daughter to be oddly cathartic.

He had most certainly not expected her to arrive half an hour early, and clearly nervous. She threw herself into an armchair, and waited until he moved to join her before she visibly steeled herself and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a werewolf?”

“You know?!” The words burst free of their own accord.

“All of Slytherin knows. Some people were reading ahead, and figured it out.” He could smell the lie on her, even if her shifty eyes hadn’t given her away, but he didn’t particularly care how they had found out.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he muttered, collapsing into his chair and burying his head in his hands, heedless of his audience. It was worse than he thought. _All_ of _Slytherin_? But _OF COURSE_ the older students had figured it out – they weren’t _stupid_ , and many of them had relatives who were Turned in the War. It was only a matter of time until one of them owled their parents or the newspaper and then no amount of loophole-exploitation on the Headmaster’s part would stop the Board from giving him the sack. _I can’t believe I believed Dumbledore when he said it would be fine… Might as well start packing now… resign before they can chuck me out... God, please tell me this is a nightmare!_

A small, tentative hand on his shoulder interrupted his silent breakdown rant. “We’re… we’re not going to tell anyone. The prefects said there’s measures in place, and you’re not dangerous –”

Remus snorted, flinching away from her. “Of _course_ I’m dangerous. _I’m a werewolf_.”

“Well… yeah. But you fight the curse, right? So you’re not _really_ more dangerous for most of the month than most of the Defense professors. So we made it a House Secret. I just thought you should know.”

“What?” Remus asked, preoccupied by his cushy professorial position imploding before his eyes.

“It’s only like, a few nights a month, right? And there’s wards and stuff on the school and the dorms. Snape told us about them. So why didn’t you tell me?”

Remus was floored. It could have been James standing before him in their old dorm, thirteen years old, announcing that he, Peter and Black had discovered Remus’ ‘furry little problem,’ and demanding an explanation for his silence.

_Jamie was acting almost offended about Remus’ trying to hide it. “Why didn’t you tell us? We’re your best mates! We_ know _you! It’s not a big deal!”_

_“Yeah, I wish I were a werewolf,” Black added, leaping animatedly to his feet. “It’d be wicked. We could have, like, a, a pack, right? And do all kinds of wicked awesome wolf stuff together.”_

_“Don’t be dumb, Siri,” Peter said, throwing a pillow at the ridiculous aristocrat. “I_ told _you, you’ll be like, a monkey, or something.”_

_“A – a monkey?” Remus spluttered, completely lost, not to mention confused about what, exactly, Sirius Black thought being a werewolf_ entailed _. It was_ not _fun,_ or _wicked awesome in any way. But they_ knew _, and they were acting like it didn’t_ matter _, and everything was_ normal _. He thought he might cry._

_“Oh, yeah, Pete had a great idea – we’re going to become animagi, and keep you company on the full moon. It’ll be great – you wait and see!” Jamie grinned. “We, uh, might need you to look some things up, though. You know how the monkey is about book-learning.”_

_“Oi! I resemble that remark!” Black had chucked a pillow at James, who went to mess up his hair, and they collapsed, wrestling and laughing, onto Pete’s bed._

The topic of animagi had been brought up again a week later, and the First Marauders’ Quest had begun in earnest. _God_ , he’d thought they would be friends forever, back then.

‘It’s only like, a few nights a month,’ took him back to his school days almost as hard.

_“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Lily said, rolling her eyes at him as they revised for their OWLs in a quiet corner of the library. “Why everyone’s so scared of werewolves, I mean. It’s only like, a few nights a month. If you stay behind Dark Creature Wards after moonrise, you’re perfectly safe… Did you know more people are killed every year by Red Caps than werewolves? It’s true. Like more people are killed by cows than sharks...”_

“You are so very much your parents’ child,” he muttered, shaking his head, and focusing on the dark-haired girl before him and the immediate problem she represented, rather than the past. “I didn’t tell you because in this country, werewolves are considered subhuman Dark Creatures ruled by their base natures, who should be chucked out or even killed, and most definitely _not_ allowed to teach _children_. I’ve become rather adept at neglecting to mention it.”

“Like I would’ve known that? I was raised by _muggles_!” the girl argued stubbornly. “And it’s not like you’re some stranger – I _know_ you’re not a monster.”

“Sometimes I am,” he said quietly, the words he condemned himself with slipping free without thought. “Society says I am.”

Mary snorted. “Yeah, you’re a monster for being a werewolf like I’m a Dark Witch for being a Parselmouth. Society can go hang.”

_Definitely Lily’s child_ , he thought. James would have reminded him that he was just as human as anyone. Lily was the one who would dare society to conform to _her_ ideals.

“If only, Little Fawn, if only.” He caught himself shaking his head unconsciously, and stopped.

The girl made a face at the nickname, as always, then, with the miraculous acceptance of a child, changed the subject. “I’m going to the Grangers’ for Christmas this year. Do you have plans?”

“France,” he answered shortly, somewhat thrown by the sudden change of subject. “I have friends there.”

“Werewolf friends?” Remus groaned internally. _Or not_.

##### Mary

Remus seemed to be taking the revelation that basically everyone knew about his secret better than Mary had expected, but she decided to change the subject a little, just to be safe. Then she was immediately tempted to change it back.

“Yes, werewolf friends,” the professor answered, with the faintest hint of amusement.

“Like a pack? Do all werewolves have packs? Or just the ones who accept the curse? Blaise wasn’t really clear.”

“Blaise… Zabini?”

“Yes? How many Blaises do you know?”

Remus muttered something under his breath that might have been ‘of course Zabini would know…’

“So _do_ you have a pack, then?” From what she had read, a wolf pack sounded like a family, and if Remus had a family somewhere in France, she definitely wanted to know all about them.

“No. My friends in France are like me – we do our best to resist the Curse. To truly build a pack-bond, we would have to embrace it.”

“Oh.” That was somewhat disappointing. “Why do you resist it?” She was curious how close Blaise’s explanation had been to the truth.

“Because I value my humanity,” Remus said with an uncomfortable shrug. “The Curse… it preys on your ability to think and reason, and magnifies the base aspects of your personality almost to the point of instinct. The Curse – the Wolf – it becomes like a separate… not person. An _entity_ , living in the back of your mind, waiting and whispering and trying all the time to overwhelm you. The ones who embrace it, they tend to be happier, but it’s a simpler existence. Their focus is on food, mates, and a warm place to curl up at night, even in human form. They don’t write stories, or question how the world works, or do magic like we do. It’s…” he trailed off, wistfulness and fear mingling in his tone. “To embrace the Curse is to give up on where you come from, and the person you used to be. And there’s no going back.”

Apparently the answer was ‘pretty damn close.’

Mary nodded hesitantly. Having to give up magic was reason enough to resist, in her mind. She loved magic. But she could understand the appeal of leaving behind the person you once were. After all, hadn’t she basically done that when she joined the magical world? And the last thing she wanted was to actually claim her relationship with her maternal grandfather. She couldn’t imagine having something in her head trying to take her over, though. “It must be hard to resist something like that.”

He shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” After a moment he added, somewhat bitterly, “It wouldn’t be a curse if it didn’t try to corrupt you.”

The Slytherin didn’t know what to say to that, so she stayed silent until Remus spoke again.

“Your father helped. And Peter. And Black. They became animagi, kept me company on the full moon. Unregistered, of course, but they didn’t have to be until they turned seventeen, and then we all had more important things to worry about, with the War. They’re… they’re the reason I never gave in. Most do, ten years after infection, at the outside. It was their acceptance of me, curse and all, that kept me fighting. I nearly lost it when I lost them, but now I think of it as a sort of… homage, I suppose, to James and Peter, at least, refusing it.”

Mary knew she should let Remus talk out whatever he was thinking of, work through his moodiness, like Hermione had done for her after her blow-up at Lilian, but this new piece of information was too good to let pass by in a stream of werewolf angst. “My father was an animagus?”

Professor McGonagall had introduced the concept of wandless self-transfiguration early on in the term, as they started focusing on animate-to-animate spells. Achieving an animagus form was supposed to be really advanced, and really difficult to accomplish.

Thankfully, Remus seemed glad enough to change the subject. “He was. A stag, like his Patronus. ‘Noble, virile, and proud,’ as he liked to brag, the great prat. We called him Prongs because the first thing he managed to do was shift his hair into these weird little proto-antlers – more like horns, really. He got them stuck for a whole week before he figured out how to get rid of them.”

The girl laughed aloud at the thought of her teenage father trying to act like there was nothing unusual about wandering around Hogwarts with horns for a whole week. She was somewhat surprised that the topic of the Marauders’ nicknames had never come up before, but then, she had rather taken for granted that they would be silly little in-jokes. “What about the others? You were Moony, right?”

“I was,” the Marauder nodded. “For, well, obvious reasons, but they told anyone who asked that it was because I accidentally mooned the Quidditch stadium during the Ravenclaw-Slytherin match our fifth year.”

“How do you _accidentally_ moon a _Quidditch stadium_?”

“You know, I still have no idea. I was pantsed… and _someone_ arranged for my pasty arse to be projected in an illusion, twenty feet high, bending over the Slytherin section while I was trying to get my trousers back up. James and Black blamed Snivellus, and I’m inclined to believe them, because if it had been them, they _definitely_ would have taken the credit…”

The Slytherin couldn’t quite keep a straight face at this, and snorted in a most undignified manner just before she lost it completely. Curious as she was about the other Marauders’ animagus forms, she recognized an opening when she saw it, so when she finally recovered from her giggle fit, she asked: “So this thing between you and Snape goes back a long time, then?”

“Oh, God yes,” Remus rolled his eyes, helping himself to the newly-arrived tea tray. “First year – we turned his hair Gryffindor red, and your mum’s Slytherin green, and I don’t think he ever forgave us.”

“Turning someone’s hair colors isn’t exactly the sort of thing you hold a grudge over for twenty years,” the third-year pointed out, practically begging to be told what, exactly, had happened, to turn two of the most important adults in her life so strongly against each other.

The werewolf scowled, and blatantly avoided the subject, as per usual. “If you’re going home with Hermione for Christmas, I take it that means you’ve made it up?”

The remainder of their time passed quickly, as Mary explained how she and Hermione had gotten past their latest spat – which of course led into an explanation of Lilian’s betrayal and why _they_ now weren’t speaking. Remus let her rant on with a bit of a smirk that he wouldn’t explain, and before she knew it, it was nearly six, and she was being ushered off to dinner. It wasn’t until she was finishing her homework later that evening that she realized she never did ask what animals Remus’ other friends had become.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely took that explanation for James' Marauder nickname from /somewhere/... I just don't remember where. If anyone recognizes the fic it's from, please let me know!


	21. Heading Home for the Holidays

###  Wednesday, 15 December 1993

#### Hogwarts

Circumstances aligned over the final week of the term to ensure that Mary entirely forgot about Black and Pettigrew’s animagus forms. For one thing, even though it wasn’t strictly required, many of the professors had periodic exams throughout the year, and almost all of them had decided that the last week before the holidays was a perfect time to test their students (along with assigning lengthy essays to be completed over the three-week vacation).

Secondly, after a week of giving her space, Lilian finally cornered Mary (with the help of _Millicent_ , of all people) and demanded that she hear her out. The older girl had apologized for not telling Mary everything, and explained that all _she_ had gotten out of it was making sure that Daphne seated them with the girls Lilian thought would make the best connections over the next few years. She really had only wanted to help Mary manage her influence on the student body, and promised not to do so from that point on, if Mary promised to make an effort to do it herself. Mary, exasperated, had quipped that perhaps Lilian and Catherine should just run her entire life between the two of them, since they obviously cared so much more than she did. She had been somewhat surprised when Lilian took her sarcastic suggestion at face value, and then had made her friend swear that she would not attempt to manipulate Mary into doing things, but just tell her what needed to be done and why.

Immediately after the girls reconciled, Lilian had begged a favor: she was about to go home for the first time since she realized exactly how her little brother had died, and she wanted Mary and Hermione to come with her, for morale. She was absolutely convinced that her parents would take one look at her, and, irrational as it was, know that she knew exactly what she had done. She was convinced that having her friends there would make the Yuletide less awkward, and pleaded with them to come.

They couldn’t say no, but they did have to get permission from their respective adults.

Professor McGonagall had thrown up her hands over the whole thing, as though after having caved to Mary’s request to holiday at the Grangers’, she no longer had the inclination to argue further. She had decided that she would let the Grangers deal with all decisions regarding her ward’s holiday excursions: Mary would be their responsibility from the time she was safely delivered into their hands until the day school resumed. The return-owl had not yet arrived from the Grangers, as the post was delayed by the first truly large storm of the season.

Thirdly, on Wednesday, only a week and a half after Hermione and Mary sent their letter to the Registry Office of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, they received a response. Hermione, specifically, received the response, and brought it to Mary and Lilian in the library, throwing it furiously on their table before disappearing into the stacks.

There were nearly five-hundred werewolves registered in Magical Britain, and apparently their names were a matter of public record. Remus John Lupin, born 10 March 1960, had been Changed at the tender age of four, and was recorded as a resident of Magical Britain, with his _custos_ listed as Albus P.B.W. Dumbledore _._ The whole list was like that: So and So, born on this date, changed on that, resident or non-resident of Magical Britain, and then the name of their _custos._

“What the hell does _this_ mean?” Mary asked, skimming the list for any other familiar names. There weren’t any. “‘Custos’?”

“I think it’s like a guardianship thing,” Lilian said. “But it’s kind of a weird way to say it. I mean, he’s not a _kid_. And why’s it the Headmaster?”

Mary had no good answer. “Because why wouldn’t it be?” she offered, earning a snigger from the older girl.

They looked over the list carefully, but neither saw any other names that they recognized, and the short cover-letter offered no explanation of the term. The only truly interesting thing was that Remus was one of the most senior werewolves in the country: many were older, but there were only three who had been turned before he was, who were still in Britain. Over two thirds of those registered had apparently moved away. Honestly, having read and heard what she had over the past two weeks, Mary didn’t blame them a bit.

Hermione returned perhaps five minutes after she stormed past them with a massive legal dictionary. Another ten minutes of skimming and muttering later (mostly to the effect that there had to be _some_ sort of indexing charm), the older girl looked up, still furious.

“This! Here, read!” she demanded, turning the book around and pointing to a particular passage. She didn’t wait for the Slytherins to do so, however. “Custodianship is – it’s like sectioning someone! Or probation! I knew I’d seen _custos_ somewhere before! It was in reference to _house elves._ At least there it makes sense, since they bind themselves so tightly to their families – but R-he’s a fully competent adult!” Mary noted Hermione’s near-slip and quick correction, and cast the _muffliato_ charm around them. “And he hasn’t _done_ anything to earn it like a prisoner would have – it’s _just_ because he’s a werewolf – and it’s not as though it was even his _fault!_ He was _four_ for God’s sake!”

“Will you let us just read it?” Lilian asked.

“ _Fine_ ,” the Ravenclaw huffed, but less than thirty seconds later, she started up again: “Did you get to the part about income yet? And did you catch that the designation only applies to non-citizen-eligible individuals?”

“Not there, yet. I’ve just got to the part about taking full responsibilities for the actions of the _tutelus_ ,” Mary muttered.

“You’re so _slow_. The relationship is called custodianship. The custos has all the power, and the tutelus has almost no rights at all. They can’t own a home, they can’t rent or open a Gringott’s account. If they work, their wages are paid to their custos. If they commit a crime, the custos is punished as well as the tutelus. If the custos decides it’s in the tutelus’ best interests, they can do… basically anything to them, short of killing them. And the tutelus can’t break the relationship without the custos’ permission. If they run away, or their custos claims they’re not obeying them, they get sent to Azkaban! It’s like a combination of slavery and – and – I don’t know – childcare! It’s _insane_ to apply it to fully grown adults! I can’t _believe_ they did this to him – to _any_ of these people. You know, I didn’t believe it when I read that we have some of the strictest creature-being laws in the world, but I do now!”

Mary gave up on working her way through the dense legal language, and pushed the book away, letting Lilian have it. She believed Hermione’s summary, anyway.

“No wonder he moved to France,” the blonde observed, closing the text with a thud.

“Is that all you have to say?!”

“Well… yeah? I mean, I dunno, what else is there to say? It’s awful and inhumane, but don’t you know what most people think about werewolves? A _lot_ of people have disowned or even put down family who got turned. Once they’re infected, they’re _not_ human anymore – it’s only a matter of time until they show it.”

“ _Lilian_! I can’t believe you just said that! Lizzie, you don’t agree, do you? You can’t! It’s _Professor Lupin_!”

The youngest girl rolled her eyes and renewed her charm as Lilian defended her views: “Jeanie, you don’t have to like it, but that’s the _way it is_. Werewolves are _dangerous_. Even in countries where they’re ‘accepted’ they’re basically cut off in quarantine reserves.”

Mary _shushed_ her. “Of course I know it’s not true about _Remus_. He’s my _friend_. I _know_ him. But like Lils said, that’s what most people think, apparently, so I’m surprised the laws are even this lenient. And I’m _really_ surprised he went to school here. I mean, a werewolf professor seems almost par for the course in Defense, but can you see parents knowing their kids were rooming with a werewolf?”

Hermione’s face suddenly took on a pensive cast. “That is a good point – and I bet they wouldn’t be happy knowing he’s a professor, either.”

“Hence why we’re not supposed to _tell_ anyone,” Lilian pointed out, shooting a _look_ at Mary for her apparent breach of Slytherin House Secrecy.

“We figured it out before Parkinson,” she explained shortly, thinking that if Lilian hadn’t been such a bitch, she would have already _known_ that.

“But that’s the thing,” Hermione said animatedly. “You all are keeping it under wraps, but we should try to figure out who all knows, just in case.”

“Who knows?” Lilian raised an eyebrow, just as Mary said, “In case of _what_?”

“Yes. You know it’s only a matter of time until people the rest of the houses start putting it together. We’ve all seen his boggart, and it’s obvious he’s ill every month.”

“No,” Mary insisted. “What would we do even if we did think someone knew?”

“I don’t _know_. Talk to them, I guess? Try and convince them not to say anything?”

“It’s a moot point,” Lilian said, shaking her head. “No one would ever believe it. They’d think he had Mene Dromosis or something before they’d believe a werewolf was appointed professor. Half of Slytherin hardly believed it at first, and it was my brother telling us.”

“What’s Mene Dromosis?” Mary asked. Hermione looked equally torn between curiosity, indignant anger, and fretting on Remus’ behalf.

“It’s like this super rare disease where your magic syncs up with the moon and waxes and wanes along with it. It shows up in novels a lot more than real life, because it can only be cured by getting bonded to your soul mate. I think it’s mostly found in people with Selkie blood? But the point is, if it gets bad enough, they can get really sick around new moon or full moon.”

“Every time I think I’ve heard everything,” the Ravenclaw muttered. “Soul mates are real?”

Mary nodded in sympathy, before she realized – “Wait, Selkies are real?”

These questions effectively changed the subject, as Lilian filled the others in on the concept of soul mates – people whose magic perfectly balanced your own in some way – and the various shape-changers she knew of – selkies, veela, and skinwalkers – until they all had to go to their next class. Seeing the look on Hermione’s face as she shoved the list deep into her bag, however, Mary was ominously certain that they had not heard the last of her opinions on the way werewolves were treated in Magical Britain.

###  Saturday, 18 December 1993

#### Hogwarts

Sure enough, Hermione had continued to bring up werewolf rights, and how it was absolutely ludicrous how they were treated throughout the week, until, on Friday, Mary invited the bushy-haired crusader to spend the afternoon of the impending Hogsmeade Day with herself and Remus. This would serve several purposes, she thought: Hermione could talk to an actual werewolf about how he was treated, rather than talking Mary’s ear off about it; Remus could see that there were students who supported him, regardless of his disease; and she would have one less person telling her about how absolutely _bloody_ lovely the village looked covered in snow, which quite frankly she was already anticipating hating.

The Ravenclaw had taken her up on it, of course, electing to join her for the entire day. They spent the morning making cards for the House Elves with Dave, Alex, Nora, and Luna. Despite not having seen or talked to any of them, even Cammy, since the beginning of the year, Mary was still inclined to thank the creatures who cleaned up after her, and Hermione _definitely_ owed the kitchen elves a card for accommodating her triple-time meal schedule. Luna had not, in fact, been invited, and no one knew how she even knew they were meeting up, but she made a jolly addition to the little group, dressed like a muggle Christmas Elf, complete with red and green striped stockings and silver bells braided into her hair.

After lunch, Luna bounced off to cheer up Ginny, who had been cursed to communicate only in Christmas Carols. The Minions wandered back toward Slytherin as Mary and Hermione climbed the stairs toward Remus’ office.

The plan, such as it was, did work out relatively well, if not in the way that Mary had expected. Remus and Hermione got into such a furious debate over how werewolves ought to be dealt with that they hardly paid any attention to her at all. Remus was not, of course, in favor of the discrimination policies that made it nearly impossible for him to legally live or work in Magical Britain, but he was adamant that the Custodianship program was a good thing, because it was the only reason he had been able to come to Hogwarts as a child or a professor. He refused to see it as modern-day slavery, brutally describing the effects of the Change and atrocities committed by werewolves both within and outside of Britain, and demolishing Hermione’s appeals to his personal benefit and wellbeing with a single cutting argument: “I will not let anyone accuse me of bias simply because of my affliction, and the _fact_ remains that werewolves are inherently dangerous.”

While it was somewhat amusing to watch the older girl and her book-learning be put in their place by thirty years’ first-hand experience, it was deeply disturbing to imagine how Remus must see himself and his future. (“But sir, there’s no logical _reason_ to fear a werewolf outside of the full moon! And even if there was, why not take the reservation approach? Even that sounds more humane than our laws!” “In my experience, _logic_ rarely enters into _fear_ , Miss Granger. And the books you chose to believe and reference have an agenda every bit as much as those you dismissed as propaganda: you cannot pick and choose your references based simply on whether you agree with the author’s politics! Unless he has the presence of mind to check himself into protective custody before giving in to the Curse, the average number of people a French werewolf Turns before being caught and remanded to a reservation is _two_. The average number they kill inadvertently is _six_ – most of those muggles. There are very real costs to the so-called _humanitarian_ approach!”)

Despite their disagreement, the werewolf didn’t really seem upset by the Ravenclaw’s impertinent arguments, allowing her to carry on until other students began filtering back from Hogsmeade and into Remus’ office hours around four. He even went so far as to tell her that he had enjoyed the conversation, and that she was welcome to return at another time if she wanted to continue the ‘discussion.’ Mary rather doubted that the older girl would take him up on the offer, though: she had hardly seen Hermione so frustrated since she was first introduced to Cammy, and realized that House Elves legitimately _preferred_ to live in servitude. So thoroughly did the other two monopolize the conversation that Mary herself left feeling rather put out. Successful plan aside, she rather thought she preferred to keep her meetings with the professor private in the future, simply for the chance to get a word in edgewise.

It was somewhat of a relief to return to Slytherin, where Pansy was questioning Lilian closely over her intentions toward Draco. Apparently it was her “duty” as Draco’s “oldest female friend” to ensure that potential social climbers like Lilian did not attempt to “ensnare him with their feminine wiles.” Draco looked both furious and embarrassed. Lilian quite obviously thought the whole thing hilarious. She and Draco had gone to Hogsmeade together again, but they had both announced, independently and on more than one occasion, that they were not (and were not going to be) boyfriend and girlfriend. As soon as Lilian noticed Mary’s arrival, she left Draco to Pansy’s tender mercies, and dragged Mary into one of the more secluded conversation nooks.

“Has she been doing that all day?” Mary asked, amused, as her friend cast their favorite anti-eavesdropping charm over them.

“Merlin, no, just since she spotted us walking back up, instead of getting a carriage.”

“You _walked_ back?”

“We had things we needed to talk about.” Lilian looked uncharacteristically nervous.

“What kind of things?” Mary teased. “You’re not _really_ going out, are you?”

“No! _Important_ things. You’re not going to believe this. See, we were in the Three Broomsticks, practicing the Notice-Me-Not Charm and listening in on everyone else’s conversations.”

“As one does,” Mary interjected.

Lilian smiled weakly. “Yeah. We were getting a butterbeer and warming up a bit, but then Professors Flitwick and McGonagall, and Hagrid and the bloody Minister of Magic came and sat down right next to us, in the middle of the fucking pub and started talking about Sirius Black!”

The younger girl growled slightly under her breath. “What were they saying?” It had to be important, or she knew Lilian wouldn’t have mentioned it, knowing as she did how Mary felt about Black.

Lilian snorted. “Well, it started off with Madam Rosmerta, who owns the pub, complaining to the Minister about the dementors scaring off customers – apparently they’ve searched the village twice now, and there’s no sign of him.”

“I guess that’s good.”

“Yeah, but the Minister’s convinced he’s still around. And get this – he thinks Black is ‘something much worse’ than the dementors.”

“Seriously?!”

“Yeah. But we already knew his priorities were buggered up. I mean, look at that bloody hat – he wears it in real life, too, by the way. It’s… really, _really_ green.”

Every picture in the Prophet showed the Minister wearing pinstriped robes and what was _always_ described as ‘his trademark lime-green bowler hat,’ which the Slytherin girls were certain reflected on his personal judgment, if not his sanity. But at the moment, Mary was more interested in what the politician had _said_ than what he had been wearing at the time. “Get to the _point_ , Lils,” she grumbled.

“I have to tell it in order! You don’t want me to forget anything, do you?”

“Fine! Just…”

“Alright, so first off, I think we need to take everything Fudge says with a grain of salt – he’s obviously not the best informed. For one thing, he apparently didn’t think that you knew that Black’s your godfather. He was going on about how you had no idea about your dad and him being friends, and how it’d be tearing you up if you knew – and then Hagrid admitted that he’d told you years ago, and Professor McGonagall got all blustery about how she had not seen any reason to deny you a relationship with your father’s last living friend, so you’d been in touch with Lupin for ages, too.”

Mary snorted unhappily. “Yeah, it’s not really a well-kept secret, is it? I think everyone in our year knows.”

“At least in Slytherin. So, anyway, after they established that Black and your dad were like brothers – their words, not mine,” Lilian added at her glare, “Fudge goes, ‘the worst he did isn’t widely known,’ and then _tells them, in the middle of the Three Broomsticks, on Hogsmeade day!_ ”

Thus ensuring that it would be widely-known after today. Mary groaned. “What was it?”

“Apparently the house was under something called a _Fidelius Charm_. See, apparently Dumbledore had _multiple_ spies in the Dark Lord’s camp, and one of them told him that the Dark Lord was after your parents, and he sent them into hiding, and suggested this charm that was supposed to make a secret – some information – impossible to find. Flitwick said it’s hidden inside a person called a secret keeper, and as long as they didn’t talk, the Dark Lord could’ve had his nose pressed against their front window, and he’d never find them.”

“And Black was the secret keeper?”

Lilian nodded grimly. “Professor McGonagall said Dumbledore offered to do it himself, but your dad insisted on Black, and then he turned them over less than a week later.”

“So he betrayed them even more directly than I thought,” Mary muttered through her shock at this latest revelation.

“Yeah, well… that’s the thing. The timeline doesn’t quite work out, does it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, didn’t Snape tell us that you were targeted specifically because your parents disappeared, so the Dark Lord thought that Dumbledore knew the prophecy was about you specifically?”

“Yes, but –”

“ _But_ the Minister thinks that they didn’t go into hiding until a week before they died. Something’s fishy.”

“Wait – you think, what, Dumbledore lied to the Minister? Or Professor McGonagall?”

“Either that or one of them got things mixed up somehow. I’d bet on the Minister.”

Mary hummed in agreement. “I do trust Snape to have a better hold of the whole situation than some random politician. He wasn’t even the Minister, then, was he?”

“No, that was ‘inalienable right to party’ Bagnold. Fudge was a Junior Minister in Magical Catastrophes at the time.”

“How…?”

“He said so later. We’re not even half done yet.”

“Oh, Morgan’s saggy left tit, how much more is there?”

Lilian made a face, and Mary motioned for her to continue. “Well, it turns out Hagrid was the one who took you from your parents’ house after the attack. He made a huge scene, because apparently Black showed up on a flying motorbike? Instead of just apparating or something? But whatever. Hagrid was kicking himself over ‘comfortin’ the murderin’ traitor’ and basically made _sure_ that everyone was listening in.”

Mary groaned. “Of course he did. What else?”

“Okay, so after he goes on his little tear about how Black was really upset that the Dark Lord died, not your parents, Hagrid admits that he took you on Dumbledore’s orders, _even though Black told Hagrid he was your godfather_.”

“He obviously wasn’t a very good one!” Mary objected. Not that Dumbledore had done _much_ better, leaving her with the _Dursleys_ of all people. But at least he hadn’t actually _murdered her parents_ by _betraying them to the Dark Lord_.

“Well, we know that _now_ , but Hagrid didn’t then – he should’ve handed you over!”

“If he had, I’d probably be dead, so I think I’ll hold off being pissed over that one,” she pointed out, relatively calmly and reasonably in her opinion.

Lilian sniffed, as though she still didn’t agree, but wasn’t going to argue about it at the moment. “After that, they talked about Peter Pettigrew for a bit. McGonagall made him sound like a bit of a useless numpty, tagging along after the other Marauders, hero-worshipping Black and your dad and so on.”

“Really? Remus always talks about him like, well... the idea-guy, I guess. He definitely said that Peter was the one who came up with the idea for the Marauder’s Map. Maybe Transfiguration just wasn’t his strong suit.”

“Maybe. And apparently neither was dueling.”

“Yeah, I knew that. It was in the papers, back when Black first escaped, that Pettigrew was the one to chase him down, and got blown up. They ID’d him from a finger and muggle witness reports.”

“Did you know there was ‘a pile of bloodstained robes’ to go with that finger?” Lilian asked triumphantly.

“No. But why should that matter?”

“Because _that’s_ what Draco and I talked about on the walk back, and neither one of us can think of a curse that would destroy the entire body _except for one finger_ , and leave the robes behind. Not to mention blowing up a whole freaking street – the robes shouldn’t have survived that. Draco agrees, and he knows a _lot_ more curses than I do – or at least knows _of_ them. It just _doesn’t make sense_.”

“So there’s the timeline thing, and this robe thing – you think, what, there’s some kind of conspiracy here?”

Lilian hummed ambivalently. “Maybe not a _conspiracy_ , but definitely there’s more to it that they’re not saying. Oh! And Fudge admitted, right out in public, that the Dark Lord is still alive… ‘alone and friendless,’ he put it, but, you know, they’re afraid that Black is going to track him down after he’s done with you, but then McGonagall cut him off right when I thought it was going to get interesting.”

Mary groaned loudly. “ _Fuck_ my _life_.”

###  Sunday, 19 December 1993

#### Great Hall

New information about Black, the Dark Lord, and the timeline of events back in 1981 aside, Mary had one last thing to take care of before heading home with Hermione (aside from completing the usual business of owl-ordering small gifts of candy to exchange with her more distant friends, and learning to transfigure a jumper into a messenger-style bag so that she wouldn’t have to take her entire Hogwarts trunk with her). She had been wavering on whether she actually wanted to do it, but talk of her traitorous godfather had brought it back to the front of her mind: asking Neville whether he thought it would be possible for her to visit her godmother over the holiday.

She wasn’t really sure what Alice Longbottom’s mental state was like – only that she was in the long-term resident ward of St. Mungo’s Hospital. She might not be up for visitors at all. Mary had casually considered trying to see her back when Catherine first explained the role of godparents, but she had put off any serious planning on the basis that she ought to talk to Neville first – Alice was, after all, his mum. That had been a good enough excuse for her to avoid _doing_ anything in the way of making plans for over four months, because until the Dueling Club kicked off, she and Neville had hardly been on speaking terms, let alone the sort of terms where she would ask him a favor. They had, however, been paired to work together in Potions as well as in Dueling Club (which was either some sort of unexplained punishment, or a very subtle compliment on her reaction times and ability to cast a shield charm), and were, after three weeks, firmly on a first-name basis.

So she really had no excuse.

But they hadn’t exactly ever talked about it before, and it still seemed like it was going to be an awkward thing to ask, so she had waited until the last possible opportunity: after their last Dueling Club meeting of the term.

The meeting had been, as far as Mary was concerned, _brilliant_. They finally got a chance to really _fight_ , using more than three spells (restricted only to hexes and jinxes from the ICW Approved List they could counter themselves), without the bother of trying to play Nym’s game, too. Mary had beaten all of the others in her group at least once (though Ernie Macmillan disarmed her twice, and Lilian stunned her once, too), and Flitwick had allowed some of the seventh-years to show off in the demonstration period at the end.

Chauncey Bell of Gryffindor and Mitchell Meyers of Ravenclaw demonstrated double casting, using two wands at once (Bell won), and then the Head Boy and Girl matched off against Sean and Farley to demonstrate pairs forms (Slytherin won, very narrowly), and then Mitchel Abbott, who had fought the last time against the Ravenclaw with the shield charms, demonstrated staff fighting against Flint (Abbott won). Apparently this last was a specialty of Durmstrang, which one of Flint’s cousins and Abbott’s mother had taught them. It involved more physical contact than anything else the students had seen in any duel so far, and only very limited casting – supposedly this was easier with custom-made staves, but Mary thought the whole business looked rather insanely difficult.

All of this was, they were informed, a prelude to their learning more advanced techniques the following term. Best of all, though, was the announcement that Flitwick had arranged for them to be allowed to use ‘one of the old dueling halls’ for practice all weekend, every weekend when they returned to the castle, so long as at least one professor or “approved, experienced senior duelist” was present to keep an eye on things. Since this included at least a dozen sixth and seventh-years, and most of them were just as excited about the prospect as the younger students, Mary expected that there would be a schedule worked out by the end of the first week back.

Finally, after the last announcement (“If any of you have practice-swords at home, do make sure to bring them back with you after the hols!”) Mary had turned to Neville and asked, rather nervously, “Could we… that is, may I speak to you a moment? In private,” she added, as Weasley looked about to butt in, and Lilian hovered curiously.

“O-of course,” he stuttered slightly.

“Great. I was thinking, maybe the Annex off the Entrance Hall?”

“Yeah, all right. Go on, Ron, I’ll be up in a bit.”

He went, with a warning for Neville to watch his back and a suspicious glare for Mary. Lilian followed them into the Entrance Hall, but then waved and made her way back toward Slytherin. Mary and Neville proceeded, silently and awkwardly, into the Annex. It was, as she had expected, abandoned.

“So, uh… what did you want to talk about?” Neville asked after a rather tense half-minute of staring at anything and everything but each other.

“Do you um… I mean… Did you know that your mum was – is – my godmother?” she blurted out.

Neville looked rather taken-aback, and she wondered fleetingly what he had expected her to ask. They had already established that he didn’t want a date with her, hadn’t they? “Erm, no. Why?”

“Well, I, um… let’s sit,” she suggested, moving to one of the small benches that lined the walls of the room. Neville followed hesitantly. “It’s, well… I know – Catherine, that is, Miss Urquhart, told me that Alice, your mum, well – I mean, of course you know she’s your mum – but anyway, she, Miss Urquhart, told me that she’s um…”

“In hospital,” Neville said quietly, putting Mary out of her misery.

“Yes. And, well, I was wondering if, you know, if she’s up for visitors, and it wouldn’t be too strange – could I visit, over the holiday?”

“I… sure? You um… did anyone tell you about them, my mum and dad – I mean, how they actually are?”

Mary shrugged, relieved to have so easily obtained the permission she sought. In her mind, the worst part was over, now. “No, just that, well, they had some sort of um… brain damage, from the War. They were aurors, right?”

“Yeah,” Neville said softly. “They were. Bellatrix Lestrange attacked them the week after, well… after your parents died. She used the torture curse, the Cruciatus, to give them, um… do you know what a stroke is?” Mary nodded. “Yeah, overexposure causes nerve damage, in the brain, kind of like multiple strokes, but it’s Dark Magic – Unforgivable magic – so it’s… there’s nothing they can do, the Healers. Mum… I think she recognizes me, sometimes, but dad just stares, and they can’t talk, or anything.” He took a shuddering breath, looking determinedly at the paneling off to their left, rather than trying to meet her eyes.

“Oh.” That was so much worse than she had expected. “I’d… I’d still like to go, and meet them, you know, at least once. Just – just because they ended up in hospital doesn’t mean that your mum isn’t my godmum.”

The Gryffindor nodded and sniffed. “We – my grandmother and I – usually go on Christmas Day. I can ask if she’d mind if you joined us. I’m sure she wouldn’t. Mind, that is.”

“I don’t know if I can on Christmas proper. I’m spending the hols with Hermione Granger and her family. But I can ask, and owl you?”

“Sure. It’s Longbottom Manor. If you can’t come on Christmas, it’s fine. You can go any time, and I’m sure the orderlies would let you in. They don’t get many visitors other than Gran.”

“Okay.” Honestly, she thought it would be easier to go with Neville, now that the option was on the table. She would ask Emma as soon as they got back to London. “Thanks, Neville.”

The boy gave her a strange look. “It’s nothing.”

Mary shrugged self-consciously. “Not to me. Anyway, I’ll see you… around? And send you that owl as soon as I can.”

“Sounds good.”

She nodded farewell and hurried away before the exceedingly uncomfortable conversation could be made worse by his offering to escort her back to the Slytherin common room or something.

###  Monday, 20 December 1993

#### Hogwarts Express

For the first time ever, Slytherin House seemed to have reached the consensus that it was preferable to return home over the holidays than to stay at Hogwarts. Generally, or at least over the two previous years, more Slytherins had stayed than any other House – and those who went home were visibly more anxious and short-tempered than those who remained behind. This year, those who were leaving, forced to spend three weeks with parents they were at odds with, tedious older or younger siblings, and, from Daphne’s moaning, endless society events, were not happy, but seemed to think their families the lesser evil, when compared to a draughty castle surrounded by dementors.

Some of them, of course, had made ‘alternative arrangements.’

Theo had claimed to be spending the holiday at school, but really agreed to pretend to be Blaise’s boyfriend to discomfit Husband Number Seven in exchange for a holiday free of both dementors and his father. Millicent was staying with Pansy for the duration, and even Nora had managed to wrangle an invitation home with one of her year-mates, international port-keys being more expensive than her family could afford twice in a year. There were almost certainly not enough students remaining to do a Yule ritual. Judging by the mob of red-heads waiting for thestral-drawn carriages, even the Weasleys were headed home. Mary could only imagine the havoc the twins would wreak without their usual winter outlet of endless snowball fights.  

There was a decidedly more festive air on the holiday train than at the end of the year. Even having to pass by the dementors at the gates and the leery looks the other Slytherins gave Remus (who was headed to France from London) as he escorted Mary, Lilian, and Hermione onto the train did not fully dampen the celebratory atmosphere. Much as the Great Hall was decorated with Christmas Trees, the each compartment of the train had garlands and ribbons, baubles and fairy-lights (literally). About one in every four doorways had a mistletoe in it, and there were floating bubbles charmed to wander the corridors and sing Christmas songs.

Mary caught Ginny trying to pop one of these, obviously still sore about the caroling prank she had been subject to over the weekend, and Hermione dragged her into their compartment. She was determinedly not-mentioning werewolves in any way, shape or form (partly, of course, because there were so many potential eavesdroppers around, but mostly, Mary thought, because she was still put out that Remus was not a political activist for werewolf rights). This translated into asking everyone brightly whether they had finished their Christmas shopping, and chattering about different gifts she had been considering for her parents. Mary still thought that a dicta-type sounded like an excellent gift, but the Ravenclaw had eventually settled on a small hothouse flutterby bush for her mother, and an enchanted ‘perpetual motion’ sculpture for her father. (Of course, these were both far more expensive than she could afford, so really she had been trying to convince her mother to buy the sculpture for her father, and vice versa.) Dan had promised that they could go to the Mall before Christmas, so Mary was planning to find something for the Grangers there. It would be a novel experience for her, buying muggle gifts and wrapping them and such.

When Hermione began to run out of steam, Lilian, who had been sketching in a small notebook over the course of the trip, asked whether Mary had decided on a new broom yet. She had been flying a school broom in practice, and had promised Flint that she would get a ‘real’ replacement for the one lost in their first match of the year by the end of the hols. It would make the most sense to simply get a second Nimbus 2001, but Draco had pointed out that QQS would let broom buyers make test-flights, and it had been over a year since the 2001 came out. She was now torn between getting the one that would take the least adjustment to get used to, and trying everything on the market. Ginny (who had been appointed as the Gryffindor reserve seeker after Thorpe’s ‘accident’) and Lilian were more than happy to discuss this topic for over an hour, at which point the Ravenclaw, apparently bored with the Quidditch talk, decided to visit other cars for a while.

Remus ducked out shortly after ‘to patrol the train’ (ie, because he hated flying even more than Hermione, and didn’t appreciate the finer points of custom broom-making _at all_ ).

The Minions stopped by at some point offering a game of Exploding Snap, which turned into several games of Exploding Snap, until it turned out that _persons unknown_ had altered Ginny’s Snap deck so that the jokers exploded forcefully enough that both decks failed to re-constitute themselves. This led to a quarter-hour rant on all the reasons the youngest Weasley was unenthusiastic about Christmas with her family, after which the Minions ‘returned to their original carriage for lunch’ (ie, fled from the future Mistress of the Howler).

After lunch (the elves had sent sandwich hampers for each compartment, which Mary thought should be a thing on every trip) Hermione returned with Luna and one of the Singing Christmas Orbs in tow. Apparently the flighty blonde knew or had figured out how to make them play other songs. She led the compartment through the process of withdrawing a copy of a memory (specifically of a piece of music being played) to shove into the Orb. After every six or seven memories, they popped in a flurry of white mist and bluish sparkles, but there was no shortage of them in the corridor, so they simply grabbed another.

The girls spent the rest of the trip taking turns playing anything they could remember the words to (and several things they couldn’t), from Kylie Minogue, Enya, and Phil Collins to Celestina Warbeck and the Hobgoblins. By far the strangest thing any of them came up with was something Luna called “folk punk” – the muggle forerunner of Wizarding bands like the Wyrd Sisters. Even Remus, when he returned (and had gotten over his concern over the safety of meddling with the Audio Spheres) had gotten in on the act, treating them to a compilation dubbed ‘the Greatest Hits of the Seventies and Eighties (but Mostly Bowie and Queen.)’ Between them, Mary was certain Remus and Lilian knew Queen’s entire discography. The older Slytherin had spent all of Bohemian Rhapsody bemoaning the fact that Freddy Mercury had died before she had a chance to see him in concert.

They arrived at King’s Cross at six, in a very good mood, collectively, with no unscheduled stops for dementors or any other attacks on the train. There was an awkward moment perhaps an hour before they reached London, when Luna decided to play Hungry Like the Wolf, and Mary couldn’t tell whether the little Ravenclaw was trying to imply that she knew about Remus’ condition. If she was, no one acknowledged it. Remus took the whole incident in stride, maintaining his cool until he handed Mary and Hermione off to the Grangers (who were waving excitedly from the platform when they arrived). He wished them all a Happy Christmas before apparating away, presumably toward France. Then they waited until Sean and Aerin (with Lara Zuthe and Carter Dunsidget trailing behind) came to find Lilian.

Mary had forgotten that all of the Moon siblings had met the Grangers before, and started to awkwardly re-introduce them before Hermione reminded her.

After the (re-)introductions and greetings were complete, Emma addressed Sean. “Are your parents meeting you today? We had hoped to introduce ourselves before sending the girls off tomorrow, as well as reciprocate their kind offer to have the girls over in person – we were thinking your sisters might like to join us for Christmas dinner – you’d be most welcome as well, of course.”

“Unfortunately, no,” the prefect said smoothly, though the glare he shot at Lilian and her slight flush suggested that this was the first he had heard of their plans. “They are currently… out of town, and will not be returning until tomorrow evening.”

“Hmmm…” Dan hummed, giving his badge a considering look. “Then I take it that you will be responsible for the girls, if they arrive tomorrow before your parents?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s a prefect, dad! And he _is_ seventeen,” Hermione interrupted. “That’s an adult in the magical world.”

“But it would not be polite for us to impose, Maia-bee, nor for you to interrupt the Moons’ reunion with their children. Perhaps, Lilian dear, you could floo us when your parents return?”

Before Lilian could respond to the suggestion, or Hermione and Mary to the casual revelation that the Grangers had a floo, Sean answered, “It would be no imposition. We will be prepared to receive them after lunch – would two suit?”

“Well, if you’re certain,” Emma sighed. “ _And_ certain your parents won’t mind…”

“They won’t,” the young man assured her. “And I rather suspect that they will be amenable to allowing the girls to have Christmas dinner at yours, as well, though I’ll have to ask them when they get home.”

“Of course,” Dan nodded approvingly.

“We’ll send the girls over at two, then, and expect them back by… ten? Or any time before then, of course,” Emma suggested.

“Best say eleven, actually. Dinner tends to run late on the holidays, and we won’t start until nine. The floo is ‘Moon Gardens Kennels.’” The Grangers nodded their assent to the later time, and after a quick round of farewells and ‘see you soon’ between the girls, they parted ways.

Mary heard Sean saying scathingly, “Way to give me a heads-up, sis!” just as Hermione said, “Since when do we have a floo?!”

“Two weeks ago tomorrow,” Dan grinned. “I thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

“Are there other surprises?” Mary asked suspiciously. Where Emma’s letters had been full of news, mostly regarding her efforts in ousting Professor Binns and later creating a muggle parent lobbying group of sorts, Dan’s had been relatively close-lipped, with more information about the latest new theory he had come across in some book or another than the mysterious ‘bit of work’ he claimed to be doing on the house and its wards with Bill Weasley and Devon Troy. All she really knew was that the magical generator project had come to a screeching halt in the wake of the run-in with the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, for reasons that weren’t entirely clear.

“Oh, a fair few.” His eyes positively sparkled with mirth. “Easier to show than to tell, though! Shall we?”

He gallantly offered to take the girls’ transfigured bags, and led the way to the fireplaces which served as the secondary entryway to the platform for wizards. (Portkeys were more popular for those with luggage and large groups.) He exchanged a sickle for a pinch of floo powder, and called “Quibbler Associate’s Auxiliary Office,” as he stepped into the green flames and vanished with a _whoosh_.

“I didn’t know muggles could use the floo,” Hermione observed, following her father, even as Mary raised an eyebrow at the floo address.

“I’ll explain over dinner,” Emma muttered, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed. “Watch your step.”

“O...kay,” Mary sniggered, following Hermione. She tripped out of what was quite obviously meant to be a decorative brazier for a patio on the other end. This was clearly not her fault – the square metal… bowl _thing_ was not at ground level, _and_ had a large table-like rim around it. It was fairly sturdy, not even wobbling as she fell out of it, and looked entirely out of place in the Grangers’… tiny new garden shed? (It had a chimney in the center of the ceiling, the plain walls had no windows, and the only thing Mary saw other than the fire-table was a list of floo addresses pinned to the door. It seemed, somehow, nevertheless, garden-shed-like.) How they had managed to attach it to the Floo Network (and why they hadn’t just used their _actual fireplace_ ) she had no idea.

“It’s Xeno,” Dan was explaining to Hermione as he hauled Mary to her feet. “He has a reputation for being a madman. No one questions why Xeno Lovegood wants to attach a mobile fire-grate to the floo network.”

Emma appeared, spinning in green flames, and hopped neatly off the coals. Mary, not for the first time, thought curses in the general direction of people who were good at floo-ing. Of course, it probably helped that the older woman knew exactly where and how she was going to reappear.

“What is this place?” Mary asked, taking her bag back from Dan.

“The ‘Auxiliary Quibbler Offices,’” Emma sighed, looking around with vague irritation. “Come on, you lot – don’t just stand there, I’m starving.”

#### Granger Home, East Farleigh, Kent

“So let me get this straight,” Hermione said, slicing asparagus into smaller and smaller pieces. “You spent three and a half months trying to get our fireplace connected to the Floo, and they refused because you’re muggles, and you even got a lawyer involved, and then dad mentioned it to Luna’s father, and he managed to have it done in less than a week?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Yes, it’s entirely frustrating.”

“Lateral thinking at its best,” Dan grinned. “We have to use the Quibbler address, but really, it’s a small price to pay.”

“Are you, actually, you know… an auxiliary Quibbler writer?” Mary asked, raising an eyebrow at Dan.

“I… may have written a few things for the Naturalism column.” Both doctors Granger sniggered.

“ _Daddy_ ,” Hermione said reprovingly. “Really?”

“What?”

“The naturalism pages are the sex advice column, Lizzie,” the older girl explained, making a face. “The Crumple-Horned Snorkack is a euphemism.”

“Oh… Merlin… do you think Luna knows?”

“Definitely. The better question is whether Mr. Lovegood knows that Luna knows.”

Dan was laughing hard enough that he started choking. When he finally recovered, he said, “No. No, he doesn’t.”

The ladies contemplated this statement for a moment, then all apparently decided not to touch the issue at once. “So, any other changes around the house?” Mary asked, as Hermione said, “Love the Christmas decorations, mum,” and Emma ordered Dan to go check on the pudding.

When he returned, he had an obviously hand-made model of the house with him, apparently to demonstrate the work he had done.

“Why is there a hamster ball attacking the kitchen?” Hermione asked suspiciously. The yellow ball did, in fact, enclose the model kitchen, the bedroom above it, which Mary generally occupied, and a not-insubstantial part of the yard.

“After many attempts to find a ward scheme that would not be affected by the creation of electric currents strong enough to power, well, anything more than a single lightbulb, within it, Devon finally suggested that we create a null-field within the larger ward-field, taking advantage of the Kasen Insulation Effect. Then we decided that if we’re going to do that, we might as well reduce the overlap, and thereby increase the effective area for blanket wards, like the anti-portkey shield. So the area inside the ball has electricity – there’s a generator outside the kitchen and we re-wired the house so that we could just shut off the rest of it at the fuse-box. It’s not really as though we used the electricity for much else, anyway.”

Hermione’s mouth was gaping open. Mary was looking around, astonished that she had become so accustomed to Hogwarts ‘normal’ that she hadn’t even noticed that they were eating by candlelight.

“You don’t use the electricity?! What about the _lights?!_ I thought you were just being cute with the candles! What about the _telephone?!_ The computer, and the television?! The floo-shed is one thing, but this – this is absurd!”

“Calm down, Hermione,” Emma said soothingly. “We moved the computer and the television up to the spare room – that’s the entertainment center, now, and replaced the record-player in the den with the magical equivalent. There are obviously candles in here, and we’re using oil lamps in the bedrooms and bathrooms, now.”

“And the phone?”

“Oh! Devon and Bill came up with really a very clever bit of shielding, which allows the wires to pass from the kitchen phone through the defenses right _here_.” Dan pointed at the spot where the yellow plastic of the ball met a white line painted around the miniature house. “So long as we don’t talk for more than half an hour or so at a go, everything seems to work just fine.”

“And, um… where will I be sleeping?” Mary asked hesitantly, as Hermione’s mouth worked silently. “If the spare room’s now the… entertainment center?”

“We’re still working on re-modeling the study to be the new spare bedroom,” Dan said blithely. “So we’ve put both beds in Hermione’s room for the moment.”

“Oh, don’t give us that look, Jeanie!” Emma chided her daughter. “You have a roommate at school, and you can’t tell us you get on better with Padma than Beth!”

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

Hermione led the way upstairs after dinner in a state of obvious shock. Mary felt rather bad about forcing her to share her room, and even worse about trying to fall asleep sharing a room with someone herself for the first time she could ever remember. She lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling and the bookshelves, wondering how, exactly, the other girl’s breathing could possibly be so _loud_.

#### Hogwarts Grounds

##### Sirius

Sirius, Padfoot – he was starting to lose track of which was which, anymore – watched with a heavy heart as the students made their way to the carriages, and out the gates. He didn’t dare get close enough to try to scent the Traitor – Moony was here – he had seen him going to the carriages, too, with the students. It took all his concentration to remember that Moony wasn’t a friend anymore – he thought _Sirius_ was the traitor – but he wasn’t a friend, and he could have told Dumbledore about Padfoot. The Professors. Anyone. Everyone. So Padfoot had to stay away from all the people. Couldn’t come close. Couldn’t be seen.

It was hard. Harder than it should be. He missed people, even now, even though they were hunting him, and even though he had found other company. The Remoran Wolves – smarter, more human, at the moment, than he was, by far – the Pack had found him, cold and alone, and they had taken him in, let him hunt with them (but not stags – _never_ stags!), but they weren’t human, no matter how intelligent they were, and he missed humans.

Humans helped him remember that he was Sirius, and not just Padfoot.

They drew him in, like the Quidditch match – so many people, out on the grounds. He had been curious. He hadn’t been able to stop himself creeping close, even so soon after his attempt to reach the Rat in the Tower, and then, when he realized what was going on – when he heard the Announcer shout _Potter_ , he couldn’t drag himself back to the Forest.

He could hardly see the action, and the rain transformed the players to faceless blurs, but even so, it had been almost too easy to forget that he wasn’t still in school, that it wasn’t Jamie out in the air – but the robes were green, not red, and if Jamie was flying, he would have been, too, and he wasn’t in school and everything was _wrong_ , not only because he couldn’t think straight, lost in memories of better times long forgotten, but because there was something wrong with the little Fawn, even before the dementors came and everything went _even more wrong_.

Something was wrong before she fell and he couldn’t get to her, couldn’t help her, because he had to run, _run_ , **_run_** , because he couldn’t protect her if the dementors caught Padfoot. He stole a wand and ran to London, let himself be seen, far, _far_ away so they would stop looking for him in Hogsmeade – went to Gringotts and signed the things they made him sign and ordered his goblin to order her a broom to say sorry for not being there, sorry for not saving you, _again_ (the guilt and the shame were eating him alive, as surely as the dementors) – but he couldn’t stay away, not knowing that she was there, really, and _not_ safe, with the Traitor still alive and it didn’t matter, being seen in London, or maybe the muggles who saw him didn’t call it in, but there were still dementors _everywhere_.

He heard himself whine involuntarily as Padfoot grew anxious. It was okay, he reminded himself. He was okay. He could do this, even if they made it hard to think in straight lines and he couldn’t tell the difference anymore between Sirius and Padfoot and it was cold and he was hungry. There was fresh air and he could run and he was free. He was _fine_. But the little Fawn, she wasn’t fine.

Crookshanks – he liked the Crookshanks – best familiar he’d ever had, that cat – the Crookshanks had told him (well, thought/memory-shared at him) that the girl who had fallen (the cat knew her as the one made of quick, deft, unobtrusive movements, and long, strong fingers, smelling of wariness but not fear) had been up and giving the best ear-scratches just days later, but there had to be _something_ wrong, even before that, because the family magic of the godfather bond, the magic that tied them together, couldn’t _find_ her.

He couldn’t remember how it worked – he couldn’t think – couldn’t _human_ clearly, most days – not around the dementors – it was better here than Azkaban, but making Padfoot think human thoughts was hard, and it was too cold to be Sirius even if Sirius wasn’t being hunted – but where was he?

Something was wrong with his goddaughter, no matter what the Crookshanks said – thought – whatever. He (Pad– no, _Sirius_ ) _knew_ that when he felt for it, he should be able to find her, should be able to feel where she was. She was his only family anymore, the only bond – it wasn’t broken, so he knew she was alive, but he didn’t know if she was headed for the train with Moony and the Crookshanks’ girl (too-soft petting and cooing at him, always surrounded by the scent of books, striding boldly, everywhere at once), or hidden away in the Castle. He hadn’t expected her to be at the Quidditch match, flying like Jamie. He couldn’t find her when he got away from _there_. He thought she was safe, behind strong wards somewhere, but she wasn’t – she was _right there_ , and he _hadn’t known_.

This was bad – so bad he couldn’t think of anything else. He couldn’t concentrate on hunting the Traitor to keep her safe because he knew, _knew_ that the only kind of magic that could stop him finding her, stop Family Magic – was dark. Very, very dark. Someone was casting dark, illegal spells on his goddaughter, and he didn’t know who. Not Dumbledore – he would never let someone use that kind of magic on a child. Snivellus? Some other Death Eater? The _traitor_? (No, he wasn’t good enough to cast that sort of spell.)

And _why_?

What purpose did it serve to hide the bond between them? It couldn’t be to keep her from him. It was already in place – the spell – before he escaped. It was the very first thing he did, before he even made his way ashore, tried to find her, seeking some direction. When he hadn’t been able to sense her location, hadn’t known instinctively where she was, when he was getting closer to her, he had thought she must be hidden away, in a safe place, maybe behind a Fidelius. He had been relieved, thinking she was safe – that he could hunt the Traitor without worrying about her.

But she _wasn’t_ safe – she was _here_ , at Hogwarts, where he had only expected to find the Rat.

Or maybe not. She might be back on the train right now, or the Rat might be, without her. He couldn’t sense her, so he didn’t know if she was buried in the depths of the Castle, or moving away, on the train.

The Crookshanks was with his girl, almost beyond the range of the Familiar bond – _far_ too far to talk/share memories. Too far to know if the cat could scent the Rat on the train, or if he was protecting the Fawn, as Sirius/Padfoot had asked him to do.

He huffed, hot breath forming a small cloud before him, as he tried to figure out how long the students would be gone. Time was strange, passing in great chunks when he couldn’t make Padfoot pay enough attention to days and moons – and paying attention was hard. It was still very cold, and after the Quidditch match, it had taken him days to get to London – to find the wand, and robes and apparate to Knockturn under glamour, and then weeks to get back without the wand. What had he done with the wand? Oh, it hadn’t liked him enough to stay with Padfoot – he remembered, now – so he had left it at the bank with the goblins. He had come back to the Forest and met up with the Wolves… It hadn’t been more than one full moon, he thought. (Even Padfoot was still aware of _that_ night, after all these years.) So all that meant that this had to be the Yule break – almost a whole _month_.

A month was far too long to go not knowing what was happening in the Castle, not knowing where his Mary was, or the Rat, for sure.

He might have given himself away, attacking like he had, so many weeks ago.

The Rat might not even be there, anymore. The Crookshanks had seen him… not long ago, not very long. But he could have run, could be sneaking to London on the train, on his way to vanish from Sirius’ life forever – and that was the best possible thing he could imagine – the least awful of the possibilities chasing each other in circles around his head. What if the Rat was with the Fawn, just waiting for the right moment to strike? What if he had pushed him into attacking her, by scaring the Traitor over Samhain? What if, what if, what if?

He had to find out.

He had to think of a way to figure out where his goddaughter was. And then he had to find out if the Rat was anywhere near her. The Traitor could not be allowed to hurt the Fawn!

He had to get into the Castle.

He needed to _plan_.

Padfoot’s paws carried him back into the Forest, deeper into the trees, even as he decided this, moving instinctively toward the cave, the Den. That was right – that was good. He could plan in the warm. It would be better, easier to think, if he wasn’t cold and hungry and tired.

The alpha-female, the mother-wolf, was awake when he returned. He licked at her jaw like a youngling, showing his submission. She was smaller than him – not even half his size – but she made him feel like a pup, accepting him into the pack when she saw his need of it. She was _safety_ and _welcome_ and _home_ in a way that his own mother (Sirius’ mother) never had been. She reminded him of Dorea, a strangely sad-happy sort of memory, of her sitting by his bed and petting his hair when she thought he was asleep after that first, horrible meeting with the mind-healer after he ran away and… everything.

He whined at the memory, and the mother-wolf nipped him sharply on the flank as she made her way toward the cave entrance. _Stop feeling sorry for yourself_.

He sighed, and lay down, watching two of the younger wolves tussle in play. The elder, a male, four or five years old, would be leaving the pack, soon, to find a mate and start his own family. The younger, a female from the last litter, abandoned the game with her tail tucked low, and curled up beside him, eyeing her brother warily. The animagus felt his eyes grow heavy. The little wolf burrowed her head under his front leg, stealing every possible bit of warmth from him, and the male came to join them after a few minutes, lying along his other side.

He could sleep, he decided. Sleep now, until it was time to hunt – until the entire Pack roamed the Forest, and he would find a hare or the Pack would take down a deer ( _not a stag_ ), and they would feast. He would think better on a full stomach. He would find a way to find the Fawn, find a way to find keep her safe. The yearling female squirmed free and jumped on top of him, finding her way to the warm space between himself and her brother (who huffed irritably, but didn’t move), where she finally settled, one paw dangerously close to his right ear, and another digging into his lower ribs. It was not as uncomfortable as it should have been, being used as her pillow.

Sirius closed his eyes and let his conscious, human worries wash away in a flood of animal _warmth_ and _comfort_ and _trust_ and _family_.

When the Pack roused itself at nightfall to hunt, Padfoot joined them. _Sirius_ remained asleep, the human need to plot of no concern to his canine mind, and protection less immediate than the hunt and the food and the too-full sleepiness that followed, and the easy acceptance of the Pack.


	22. Yule is a Time for Family

###  Tuesday, 21 December 1993

#### Moon Gardens, Devon

Mr. Tim Moon was a very severe, stern-looking man, with indeterminately brown hair, brown eyes, and a slightly-too-prominent nose, which both Sean and Lilian had inherited. The lines on his face attested that, despite his attempts at holiday levity, he more often wore a scowl of Snape-like proportions.

Mrs. Dahlia Moon, nee Rosier, seemed to be drugged. Mary’s first impression was that she was drunk, but as the day wore on, she decided that some sort of happy pills or potion was more likely at work. The older witch was very… mellow. To the point of absent-minded unresponsiveness. Like Mrs. Putnam at Number 5, the summer she had discovered Xanax. 

Mary wasn’t certain, but Yule dinner might have been the most awkward meal she’d ever had anywhere, including all the years she’d lived with the Dursleys. At least when they didn’t want her there, they sent her away. The Moons stubbornly pretended nothing was wrong, while treating their own children like distant strangers.

On top of that, Sean was irritable because Lilian hadn’t warned him that she was inviting Mary and Hermione over and _he_ hadn’t been allowed to have Dunsidget over, or else go to his place, which Mary was certain had to be less awful. And while Aerin didn’t seem to really be angry with the younger girls anymore, she also didn’t have nearly as much in common with them as she once had, given that they hadn’t spent any time at all together over the past term, and therefore hadn’t had any recent adventures together. They made small talk. It was almost as sad as it was awkward, realizing how far apart they had grown in just half a year.

And of course, all three of the girls were angry and resentful of each other by the time the food was served, which didn’t help the atmosphere at all. Sean and Aerin were both obviously curious about what had happened in the few hours immediately before dinner, but they couldn’t ask over the meal without being _inexcusably_ impolite.

In hindsight, Mary suspected that Lilian’s invitation might have been less in the spirit of supporting her friend’s morale throughout this awful dinner, and more along the lines of misery loving company.

It had only been one day, but between the undeniable tension at the Grangers’ and the horrible uncomfortableness here, Mary was already regretting having argued to leave Hogwarts for the holiday. _Just remember, there are_ dementors _at Hogwarts_ , she told herself sternly, picking at her pudding and waiting impatiently for the visit to be over.

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The holiday had been very different than it would have been at school.

Mary had woken early, as was her habit, and helped Dan cook a massive breakfast (to be snacked on all morning) before Hermione and Emma rose for the day, then spent several hours poking around the re-organized, half-renovated house and talking to the adults about their plans for decorating the new spare bedroom (hopefully with less large floral prints than the old one, and maybe a green and gold color-scheme). She had established that they would be going shopping for last-minute Christmas/“Belated Yule” gifts the following day, and asked whether she could visit St. Mungo’s with the Longbottoms on Christmas. The Grangers had said yes, provided they could meet Neville and Madam Longbottom before she went, and Mary had owled Neville with the conditional response.

Hermione, still upset that renovations had been made without consulting her, had sulked in her room with a novel and a mug of hot cocoa until it was time to get ready to head over to the Moons’. Mary could tell that it was bothering her parents that she didn’t want to spend time with them, when she was only home for a few weeks, and they only had time off from work for one of them, but when she tried to point this out, all the older girl had said was, “Good! Maybe they’ll think about me next time before they go changing our whole bloody life around!”

After that, Mary had just left her to it.

As soon as they had arrived at Lilian’s house, they had been introduced to her parents, who were not, in fact, out of the country. According to Lilian, Sean had just said that because it was practically unacceptable by certain standards for at least _one_ parent not to come fetch the children from the station. Sending them off from home was one thing, but failing to welcome them back was quite another.

Lilian had given them a tour of the house, grounds, and kennels while Hermione complained about the changes her parents had made in her absence, without even thinking to _warn_ her about any of it. _The nerve!_

Mary spent most of the day keeping her mouth shut. She did see how Hermione had a point, when she said that they ought to have at _least_ told her what they were doing, but she personally didn’t think it was that big of a deal. It _was_ the Doctors Granger’s house. They were the ones who had to live there all year ‘round. And it really wasn’t _that_ inconvenient to have the electricity confined to only a few rooms. If anything, it was less strange, at least to her, than coming back to a purely muggle home, given that she’d only spent a few weeks _away_ from magic in the past two and a half years.

Still, she was certain that her opinion would be unwelcome. Lilian was obviously glad of the distraction from her own familial _issues_ , and kept encouraging Hermione’s bitching. By the time they had completed the tour, she was starting to repeat herself.

Part of the problem was that there wasn’t much for the children to do on the day of Yule. So far as Mary could tell, the major symbolic part of the holiday was putting out all of the fires in the house at dawn, cleaning out the old ashes, and then re-lighting them at sunset, with a coal saved from the old fire. This was why they had had to floo to the kennels, rather than the main house, and why the Yule feast would be served so late – the elves couldn’t even start cooking it until sunset.

According to Aerin, the elves had done the hard work of cleaning out the fire-grates and chimneys, so there was nothing for the girls to do until they re-convened to re-light the hearth fire in the kitchen. After that, they would have a few more hours to amuse themselves before dinner, and then, after Mary and Hermione went back to the Grangers’, the Moon children would hole themselves up in a parlor telling stories, playing games, and catching up with one another, keeping a vigil until dawn.

That part of the day sounded like the most fun to Mary (though playing with the latest litter of barghest pups on their tour might have come close). Right now, the house was freezing, and there was nothing to do inside, so all of the teens had taken to the outdoors. At least there they didn’t _expect_ to be warm. After they finished having a look around, Lilian had led her friends out to a nearby wood, to help collect and shape an ash faggot for Christmas proper. Neither Mary nor Hermione had ever done such a thing before. In the Dursleys’ house, a Yule Log was a sort of cake, and the gas fireplace had long been blocked off, due to Dudley’s brief infatuation with setting things on fire when they were five or six. Getting the thing to hold together without using magic was far more difficult than Mary would have suspected. They did manage it, though, and levitated it triumphantly back to the house, just in time to see the re-lighting.

It was a very simple, solemn ceremony.

The children stood back as Mrs. Moon carried a heavy ceramic bowl filled with hot coals into the kitchen. “I come bearing the seed of the hearth-flame,” she said diffidently. “As the year waxes and wanes, so too does the fire, never gone, but only waiting to spring again into life.” She sounded almost bored.

Mr. Moon removed the lid from the bowl, and took a tiny scoop to carefully shift the coals to the fresh tinder in the grate.

“Without light, there is no darkness, and without darkness, no light,” he declaimed, his voice much louder and stronger than his wife’s. “The House of Moon renews this fire against the coming of the longest night.”

The adults set their tools aside, and the family (and Mary and Hermione) joined hands, creating a half-circle around the hearth, with Mr. and Mrs. Moon at either open end, and the hot coals, not yet a fire, between them. They chanted an invocation in a language Mary didn’t know – maybe something related to Greek? – their free hands held out toward it. Their voices wound around each other, distorting the words, but creating a cadence that spoke to Mary on a fundamental level of heat and light, and after a few long seconds, she felt magic coursing through them, a bit of her own power joining Mr. Moon and Lilian’s and Hermione’s, flowing out to find Sean and Aerin and Mrs. Moon. The hot coals erupted into flame, completing the circuit as the chant reached a crescendo, and then the sense of connection faded away.

“We welcome the light and the flame into our home and our hearts,” Mr. Moon said, his voice alone almost too quiet to hear against the crackling of the newly lit fire. “Let its heat ward away the cold of winter as the light begins to regain its strength, continuing the eternal cycle.”

“So mote it be,” the family replied, Mary and Hermione just slightly out of sync with the others.

And with that, it was done. Mr. and Mrs. Moon, Sean, and Aerin disappeared as the elves stepped out of whatever corners they had been hiding in, and began pulling dish after dish from the cold-box and lighting ovens. They were grinning and singing merrily in their own high-pitched language. It made Mary smile just to see them. There were only four – one who normally cooked and kept the house, and three who worked in the kennels, according to Lilian – but they managed to give as much life and bustle to the Moons’ kitchen as a hundred Hogwarts elves could have done. They were clearly enjoying the holiday far more than any of the humans.

“So what now?” Hermione asked.

Lilian shrugged. “We can’t go back outside until dawn, so I guess we can go hang out in my room. At least we can light the braziers now.”

Lilian’s room was toward the back of the sprawling, one-story home. It was clear that more rooms had been added on as needed over the years, such that the building itself wasn’t really symmetrical. The name of the house, Moon Gardens, came from the fact that it had spread to create lots of little courtyards, all of which, Lilian explained, were landscaped, and much prettier in any other season. Even the corridors had windows, overlooking these yards, and there were lots of little benches, both inside and out, to sit and appreciate them. Lilian’s room was across a garden from Aerin’s, with windows on three sides. They could see the older girl’s shadow against her shades as she lit her own lamps and fires.

The room itself was decorated in a hodge-podge of styles, accumulated over the years. It was clearly very much _Lilian’s_ space, standing in stark contrast to Hermione’s room, which had clearly been thoroughly re-decorated by an adult, or Mary’s cupboard, which had never had much in the way of decoration at all. In fact, now that she thought about it, none of the places Mary had ever slept had had much decoration.

Lilian’s walls were painted a pastel purple, with gold accents at the windows and door-frame. These matched the slightly-battered desk, wardrobe, and dresser, but they had been nearly completely covered by framed pressed flowers; moving photos of magical creatures and clouds; black-and-white muggle photos of the moors; knotted and braided decorations made of ribbon and twigs; Quidditch posters for the all-female Holyhead Harpies and the Hartland Hippogriffs (the local Devon team); and the occasional muggle band or movie poster. There was a bookshelf full of dog-eared novels, and a collection of miss-matched chairs and small tables, arranged in corners and around a pair of fire-dogs, not unlike the ones in Slytherin. A record-player sat on one of these, with a teetering stack of muggle and magical records piled beneath it. There was a fluffy Slytherin-green blanket on the bed, and a chaser’s glove and a stray sock peeking out from under it, as though Lilian had tidied rather hastily, simply shoving any clutter out of sight.

Hermione lit the fire with a quick _incendio_ (only too pleased to have one more chance to use magic before they returned to her parents’ house), then moved to look at the novels on the shelves. Lilian started to pull the curtains closed, but stopped when she reached the window that faced Aerin’s. She froze, her face expressing nothing, but after two and a half years, Mary was more than capable of reading her friend’s body language. She could guess what the older girl was thinking. It had been a recurring pre-occupation for her since Mabon, after all.

“You should tell her,” she said quietly.

Lilian jumped, then tried to cover. “Tell who what?” she asked, with a tone of false confusion.

Mary sighed. “Aerin. About Connor.”

An indecisive shadow passed over the normally bold Slytherin’s face. “I can’t,” she said, almost pleading. “She wouldn’t be able to…” she trailed off.

“I know you don’t want her to suffer through knowing like you have been, that you want to protect her, but she’s older than us, and at least if she knew, you could share the pain,” Mary pointed out.

“I thought you were with Sean, saying I _shouldn’t_ tell her.”

“That was _before_. I’ve been watching, and… You two used to be so close, and now…” Mary trailed off, uncertain as to whether she should say it, but then decided that she should. It needed to be said. “Your parents already treat you like strangers. I hate seeing you and Aerin becoming strangers, too. Is it really worth _protecting_ her if you don’t even _talk_ to each other anymore?”

“You don’t _understand_ ,” Lilian hissed angrily.

“No, I don’t. Because _I don’t have a family_. And – and I think it’s _wrong_ that you and Hermione are screwing up the ones you’ve got!” The last sentence burst out of her without thinking, and more forcefully than she would have said, if she had meant to. It was loud enough that Hermione overheard.

“ _What_ did you just say?” she asked, turning to glare at the younger girl.

Mary felt herself growing wide-eyed and slightly light-headed as she realized what she had said, and to whom, but she wasn’t about to back down. She hadn’t been able to put her finger on exactly _what_ was irritating her so much about the Grangers’ situation until now, but now that she had, she felt… relieved. Anxious, too, because she was pissing off both of her closest friends, but she was certain that she had figured out what seemed, at least to her, to be the real problem.

“You heard me,” she said, as strongly as she could manage. “You and Lilian are both screwing up, and… and it bothers me,” she added in a rush. She was not at all accustomed to admitting that something was bothering her, but it was true, and Lilian had told her that if something was bothering her she should change it, to get what she wanted instead, so she would. This was _important._

“I don’t really think it’s any of _your_ business,” Hermione said coldly.

Lilian was just staring at her in shock.

Mary hesitated for a long moment. “It is, though,” she said, quietly. “You two are my friends, and you’re hurting yourselves and your families, and that’s _wrong_.”

“I am doing no such thing!” the brunette snapped, raising her nose in a snit.

“ _Yes_ , you _are_!” Mary snapped back, taking refuge in anger on behalf of Emma and Dan. “You _don’t get it_. Your parents _love you_. They want more than _anything_ to be a part of your world, and you’re just… jealous, or something, that you can’t have magic all to yourself, and you keep pushing them away, and it pisses me off! Emma and Dan are _good people_ – they don’t deserve to be treated like, like _muggles_ who don’t _belong_ just because you want to be – what? More independent? You don’t like that they changed the house without telling you, I get that, but they meant it to be a surprise! Not speaking to them about it is just… petty! It’s petty and immature, and you need to just _get over yourself_.

“And you!” she added, rounding on the now-gaping Lilian before Hermione could respond. “ _You_ are _so_ worried about hurting Aerin and making her hate you and herself that you’re pushing her away, just like your parents! Instead of trusting that she’d get over it eventually and you two could be real sisters again, you’re just taking that chance away from her, and that’s not helping _either_ of you! You’re right, I did think it was better not to tell her when I thought things would go back to normal between you two, but they haven’t, and it’s bothering you, I can _tell_!”

“I –” Hermione started, but Lilian cut her off.

“Shut up, Jeanie! Lizzie’s right – you’re being selfish. Oh, boo hoo. Your parents didn’t ask you what you thought about them getting involved in our world. They remodeled without telling you. You have to share your room for a few weeks. You don’t have their undivided attention anymore. If you don’t pull your head out of your arse, they really will start to like Liz more than you. That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it?” she sneered. Hermione was staring at the two of them now, open-mouthed, with tears in her eyes, but Lilian didn’t notice. She was busy turning on Mary, her tone twice as vicious.

“ _You_ have some nerve!” she spat. “You don’t have _any idea_ what this is like! _Aerin and I killed my brother_ , Lizzie! And I can’t tell anyone I know that I did it – my parents would hate me even _more_ , and it would fucking _break_ Aerin to know she had a hand in it! She’d hate me for not telling her sooner, and for telling her at all! She’d hate herself as much as _I_ hate _myself_ , and I can’t do that to her! She’s my _sister_! But you wouldn’t know what that’s like, _would you_?”

_No,_ my _only living relatives are an evil, undead dark lord, a creepy, escaped horcrux that sent me a birthday present, and a godfather who apparently escaped from fucking_ Azkaban _to_ kill _me! I spent ten years living with people who hated me and treated me like a fucking_ house elf. _I don’t have_ any _idea what it’s like to be part of a dysfunctional non-family!_

She almost said it. It was on the tip of her tongue. But she didn’t trust Lilian to keep the Evil, Undead Grandfather thing a secret if it came out when they were in a fight. “You’re right,” she said instead, coldly. “I wouldn’t. You two ungrateful _bitches_ are the closest thing I’ve ever had to sisters. But I’d like to think – _I’d like to think_ ,” she repeated, over Hermione’s attempt to interrupt her, “that if I _did_ have a family, I wouldn’t take my parents” (she glared at the eldest of their trio) “ _or_ my siblings” (she shifted her glare back to Lilian) “for granted!”

“Ha!” Hermione practically shouted at her. “You think _I’m_ the one taking _them_ for granted? _They’re_ the ones who don’t _ever_ think about what I want! Yes, they want to be a part of our world, but _they’re not_! The only reason they even _know_ about magic is because of _me_ , and –”

“And _what_?” Lilian interrupted her, red faced and furious. If Mary had to guess, she would have said that she was mostly angry at _Mary_ , but Hermione had drawn her ire for distracting her from Mary’s criticism. “You think that means they need your _permission_ to get involved? You’re _fourteen_. They’re _your parents_. Do you know what I would give to have parents who actually gave a shit what I was learning or wanted to be involved in my life?”

“You were on my side earlier!” Hermione objected angrily.

“No, I was being _polite_ and being a good friend, letting you bitch and moan about your so-called problems, but as long as we’re getting it all out there, Lizzie’s right! You do take your parents for granted! It doesn’t matter what you want, they’re going to do what’s best for you because they _care_.”

“And that means not giving a shit about me personally, does it?” Hermione asked scathingly.

“They _do_ care about you personally!” Mary corrected her. “You just won’t let them show you because they’ve pissed you off!”

“If they _cared_ , they would ask me what I thought of their getting involved in _my_ life – they wouldn’t just _make choices_ without _consulting me_!”

Lilian was laughing, slightly hysterically. “You know who you sound like, Hermione? Draco. ‘Oh, my parents give me everything I could possibly want, but Father never really spends any time with me, and Mother never leaves me alone. My life is _so hard_ ,’” she mimicked him, then did Hermione: “‘Oh, my parents are going ridiculously out of their way to keep involved in my life and not _lose_ me to the magical world, like so many muggleborns’ families do, and they write me letters all the time about their latest political gambits and their experiments and their lives, but they made a major sacrifice for me without _telling me_ about it, which is just _unacceptable_ and _completely_ overbearing.’ The two of you should get together and have an entitled little pity party!”

Hermione couldn’t seem to form words to rebut the Malfoy comparison. She stuttered for a moment before choking out, “You don’t _understand_ ,” much as Lilian had done earlier. There were tears in her eyes again, whether from anger or frustration Mary didn’t know. The Ravenclaw threw herself into an armchair and stared moodily at the flames flickering before her.

“Then _explain it to us_ , genius, because from where I’m standing, you’re still looking like a selfish blond twat!” Lilian snapped, merciless in her desperation to avoid dealing with her own familial drama. Mary hadn’t missed that she had completely turned the attention away from herself, but she hoped that she would at least _think_ about what Mary had said later.

“My entire life has been one long series of Mum butting in and taking over everything! I’ve never been allowed to do _anything_ by myself! Going to Hogwarts was the first time I ever spent a night away from home. Magic was supposed to be _mine_! My chance to do something that didn’t have her fingerprints all over it! And now she’s forcing her way into the wizarding world, too. It’s not _fair_! I just wanted _one thing_ that was _mine_ , and I can’t even have that!”

“That is the _stupidest_ thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Lilian said, but Mary was thinking back on everything she knew of the Grangers. She suddenly recalled her thought on entering Lilian’s room, that it was nothing like Hermione’s, because the only sign of Hermione’s personality in her room was her collection of books, most of which had to have been bought for her by her parents, anyway. Emma was not altogether different from Aunt Petunia, she realized, at least in the way they both controlled every aspect of their children’s lives. It was an unsettling thought, finding a similarity between her favorite and least favorite women in the world.

“I told you that you wouldn’t get it!” Hermione huffed.

Mary sat gingerly on one of the other chairs, a rather spindly one that seemed to go with the tea-table in the corner. “You’re blowing this out of proportion,” she said, as calmly as she could. “Just because they’re involved doesn’t mean they’re completely taking over _everything_. And besides, I thought you _wanted_ them to help get rid of Binns!”

Hermione shook her bushy head fiercely. “It’s not just about that! It’s – my life as a witch and my life as a muggle were separate, and now they’re not! I wanted – _needed_ this holiday to be a _break_ from the magical world! It was supposed to be _normal_. And now it’s _not_ , and they didn’t even warn me!” There were tears leaking down her cheeks, now. She wiped them away with a sleeve, viciously, and pulled her feet up into the chair, burying her face in her knees. “Just… just leave me alone, _please_.”

Lilian and Mary exchanged a look. All the fight seemed to have gone out of Lilian as she saw Hermione’s shoulders begin to shake silently. She nodded, and led Mary toward the door, closing it firmly behind them.

Mary leaned against the wall, arms crossed, breathing deeply and trying not to lose it herself.

“I think you might have been right about the time turner.”

She looked up. Lilian was looking at the closed door with concern.

“When I thought the worst that could happen was a breakdown, I wasn’t expecting… this,” the older girl added.

“Stop changing the subject,” Mary said, suddenly exhausted.

“What?” Lilian sounded genuinely confused.

“Aerin. Connor. Either you have to tell her, or you have to find a way to get over it. I’m serious.”

The blonde tried to brush her off. “It’s okay. We’re fine.”

“You guys are acting like me and Dudley used to – like you’re not family, you just happen to live together,” Mary told her baldly. “You’re _not_ okay. You have to do _something_ , because this secret is tearing your family apart, and I don’t even think you see it.”

“And what would you know about it?” Lilian snapped, defensively.

“About how a secret can tear a family apart?” she asked rhetorically, letting her hatred of the Dursleys, and her longing for a real family show on her face. “More than you might think.”

She turned on her heel and stalked away, before Lilian could answer. If she had looked back, she might have seen something like sorrow on her friend’s face, but she didn’t. She found an unoccupied room and sat contemplating a wet, grey garden outside the darkened window until an elf came to fetch her for supper, lost in thoughts of her long-gone parents, and what her life might have been like if they had lived.

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Later that evening, long after Hermione and Mary had returned to the Grangers’, Mary lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Hermione, emotionally exhausted, had gone to bed almost at once, while Mary related the afternoon and evening’s events to the adults in the vaguest of terms. She wasn’t comfortable telling Hermione’s parents why she was so upset, seeing as it involved them, so she glossed over the three of them having had an argument, without elaborating on the details. She still hoped that Hermione would talk to them herself, and soon, or at least get over her temper tantrum, breakdown, whatever it was. She didn’t know what she could do to help, other than what she had just done, pointing out that it was a problem.

She had been glad that the older girl was already asleep when she finally went to bed, but as she lay in the dark, listening to the sound of her friend tossing and turning, she couldn’t help but wonder if there was any truth in the accusation Lilian had made, that Hermione was afraid her parents liked Mary better than her. She secretly thought she had been acting like a better daughter to them since they had arrived for the holiday, but she would never say it. She hoped Hermione didn’t believe it either.

Her feelings of unease weren’t helped by the fact that she felt she had missed out, not having a big holiday ritual for the Powers. It wasn’t as though there would have been one at school, anyway, seeing as almost _everyone_ had left, but apparently two years was long enough for her to think of a pattern as a tradition, and the way things _should_ be.

She wished she could have spent the day in quiet contemplation, rather than in uncomfortable, awkward silence and getting in a fight with her best friends. She knew what Hermione meant when she said that she had needed this break, and that it wasn’t shaping up to be everything she had wanted, if only because it had just been _so_ awkward and tense.

The past term – the past year, really, had put her through the wringer, and she truly felt she could have used the holiday – the _real_ holiday – as an excuse to stop and take a day to consider how far she had come, and everything she had survived.

The Yule before had been horrifying, making her live through half a lifetime as her more-abused, more-reckless Gryffindor self, and she felt like she had hardly stopped moving since. It had just been one awful thing after the next, all year.

The Conspiracy – gods and Powers, that had been _such_ a bad idea – had gotten under way as soon as the holiday ended, and the whole school had been living in fear for _months_ between the attacks.

And then there had been the Chamber of Secrets itself. It _still_ bothered her that she couldn’t remember what had happened down there, for real. She still had that false memory, which was like adding insult to injury, taunting her about the fact that she didn’t know what she had done.

Then she had found out about her mum and the Dark Lord, and Snape had basically told her that he ought to have treated her like a goddaughter all these years, but then it turned out that he had betrayed her in their very first detention, even though she hadn’t wanted to believe he would. They hadn’t really talked since, which wouldn’t be strange – she didn’t _expect_ to talk to him, really – except she had tea with Remus every few weeks, and they just talked and caught up. She blamed him for throwing her whole idea of how she should expect adults to act all out of whack.

The Grangers had started their scheming over the summer, and Mary could see now how she was getting pulled further and further into the drama the family was building, both in Magical Britain, and with whatever Hermione’s problem was. She vaguely recalled, now that she was thinking of it, that the idea had been floated of the Grangers adopting her, or taking on her muggle guardianship or something of the like, after she had run off and broken her arm over the summer. She wasn’t sure what she would say, if they asked her if she wanted them to over the coming weeks. On the one hand, Emma and Dan were great, and Hermione was practically her sister already, but on the other, if Lilian _was_ right, that might make things between Hermione and her parents even worse.

Speaking of guardians, though, she had had to see both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon over the summer, which had been nearly as unpleasant as breaking her arm in the first place, or being lost and alone in the muggle hospital, or having to deal with Aunt Minnie afterward.

It was a little bit startling, even now, to realize how many adults she had in her corner, supporting her. The Professor had only been so angry because she cared, and Dan had stood up to her for Mary, and Emma had driven across the country and back to fetch her that night. Catherine had been worried, too, and had made it very clear that she was not ever to run away again. If she included Snape and Remus, both of whom had told her in the last year that they thought of her as the niece they had never had, she had three times as many almost-family members as she had had even a year ago. Lilian and Hermione had already been practically her sisters, but she wouldn’t have thought to consider any of the adults something like family back then.

She knew she _shouldn’t_ count Riddle, wherever _he_ was, but she couldn’t help but wonder if the Parsel book he had sent for her birthday and/or Mabon meant that he wanted to claim her as family, too. It would have been nice to have someone she was actually related to by blood consider her family (if she ignored _who_ he actually was, and the fact that she didn’t know what had happened between them in the Chamber).

She knew it was out of order, since she had gotten ahead of herself, but she had to include the events of her birthday as one of the big things that had happened since last Yule. Sirius Black’s escape had been inconvenient multiple times over the course of the last – had it only been five months? And she still didn’t know what was going on with the weird Libra tattoo, or what had been going on in her Lammas vision. Or her Mabon vision, for that matter. It was awfully shitty of the Powers, she thought, to show her these teasing little hints and then not tell her what they meant.

She _thought_ that the man who had accused Black in her Lammas vision might have been Pettigrew. She hadn’t known his face, then, and it had faded in her memory over time, but thinking of the two scenes together, it would make sense. He was the one who had accused Black in real life, after all. She wished she knew what spells Lily had cast on them, all those years ago, and why they were important, because she was _sure_ they were. If Hermione decided she was speaking to her again at any point this holiday, she might ask whether she had come across a description that sounded similar in any of her reading.

Once she had finally gotten back to school, her life had more or less exploded with minor stresses – all the Slytherin drama with Dave, and the Muggleborn Students’ Association, and the Dueling Club, Quidditch, the flobberworms and the COMC and History Petitions, and dealing with Daphne’s tea parties, Remus turning out to have been a werewolf all along, and the ever-present threat of the dementors. She couldn’t _wait_ to start learning the Patronus for real. Plus there was the ongoing mystery of what the hell was up with Snape and Remus, and Hermione’s time turner drama, and their hundred hours of detention, which had just been cruel and unusual at every turn.

Like Hermione, she had been hoping that this break would be a well-needed respite from constantly dealing with one thing after the next, and so far it just _wasn’t_. At all.

Several hours after she lay down, still unable to sleep, she rose from her bed and took her journal into the living room. She only wrote in it sporadically, and more often notes to herself than any sort of diary-entry, but it was half-past two, and there were too many ideas in her head for her to sleep.

She scribbled down her thoughts on everything she could think of that had happened over the past year and then, on re-reading them, decided that she couldn’t keep them.

There were too many secrets there that anyone could find and use to get not only her, but her friends and Snape and Remus in trouble too.

She tore the pages free and headed toward the kitchen, intending to use her oil lamp to burn them over the sink, but then she had a better idea. She slipped on the boots Dan had left by the door and crept outside, shivering in the pre-dawn chill. A sharp breeze caught the pages as they burned, scattering the ashes and carrying them away as they fell. Mary watched a few red sparks flutter into the sky, until they faded away. “Here’s hoping the next year is better,” she muttered under her breath. Then she turned and hurried back to the warmth of her bed.

This time she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

#### Crouch Townhouse, Birmingham

##### Bartemius Crouch Junior

Barty’s hand twitched for the wand that wasn’t there as the golden glow of his father’s Imperius, the metaphorical bindings entrapping his mind, faded from his consciousness. He found himself literally bound to his chair, instead, _stuck_ there, unable to stand, to flee.

“Let me go! Let me go, you motherfucking _psycho!_ ” he shouted at the man who sat at the other end of the dining table, helping himself to the Yule roast as though this – this disgusting _parody_ of a normal family gathering wasn’t exactly that. “Winky! Winky! Help me! Get me out of here!”

The elf gave him an all-too-sorry look, and he knew what her answer would be before she said it. He could probably have said it along with her: “Winky is sorry, Master Barty, but Winky cannot – Master Barty’s father has forbidden it!” and she twisted an ear with her free hand, the other levitating the roast to his end of the table.

“Father, _please_ , let me go!” he cried, ignoring the food as he struggled against the spell that held him. Unfortunately it was one that required a specific counter-curse, and he could not cast it wandlessly. The old man had learned his lesson about assuming his wandless Death Eater son was harmless the very first time he had released the Imperius: Bellatrix had made sure that each and every one of her trainees, no matter how incompetent, could manage a non-verbal, wandless _finite_ of the sort that would cancel a simple immobilization jinx, and Barty had not been incompetent when it came to magic, no matter his other flaws as a son.

Homosexual, yes. He would, in all likelihood, be the last of the line. Fascinated by the Dark, yes. He could not remember a time when he was not more interested in how the crimes his father investigated were committed, rather than how they were solved. Disinterested in a ministry career? A capital sin in his father’s eyes, and one to which he fully and unabashedly admitted.

He had always, _always_ been brilliant at magic, though – he knew that. He had wanted to be a teacher – a professor – but _teaching instead of doing_ _isn’t good enough for any son of mine – aren’t Slytherins supposed to have_ ambition _?_

Then again, he wasn’t the only Crouch who had failed to live up to the expectations of his so-called family. What kind of father broke his son out of prison, only to keep him locked up under an Unforgivable for the rest of his life, save when he wanted to act out some half-remembered fantasy of a time long-past? Especially after sentencing him to that hellhole in the first place to save his own job?! (The true irony of the situation, of course, was that Bartemius Crouch Senior had always cared more for his job than his son, and had never attended a Yule dinner with him _before_ Azkaban.)

“Father – let me go! I promise, I’ll disappear! I’ll leave the country! No one will ever know!” That was a lie. If he ever got hold of a wand again, he would cast fiendfire, and burn this place to the ground – and preferably his father along with it. He thought it would be a well-justified response to… it had to be nearly ten years now, that he had been a prisoner in his one-time home. Eleven?

He had joined the Dark Lord partially because Lucius Malfoy had spoken persuasively – passionately – about freedom and rights and the good of all wizards. More than that, it had been the lure of forbidden knowledge, freely shared. But mostly it had been the fact that the Dark Lord and his followers were the first and _only_ people in his life who had appreciated his intelligence and his potential, who made him feel _welcome_ and _accomplished_. It was the same for several of the others – Liam Rosier and Severus Snape, at least, that he knew of – they had been among the outcasts of Slytherin, too focused on their own projects to engage as Slughorn would have had them do with their peers, their only salvation the positive interest of the darkest of their fellow students.

He had never been able to win his father’s approval, but all the Dark Lord gave his freely, asking only loyalty in return.

Now, if – no, _when_ (he had to believe it was _when_ ) – he escaped, he would seek out his fallen Lord – in part to prove that he had never lost or abandoned that loyalty, had never forsaken him, unlike the Malfoys and the Notts and Yaxleys and the rest of them, but mostly to spite the man who had never cared for him as aught but a thing to be kept and held against his will.

“Father, _please_ , this isn’t what she wanted! Mother never would have wanted… _this_!” Even the mention of his mother drew only the slightest flinch of a reaction from the man at the other end of the table. “She would think this – this whole _farce_ – _sick_ and _wrong_! You know it, Father! Please!”

Unlike his father, his mother had loved him – he knew that, now, though he hadn’t truly realized it until she had made the ultimate sacrifice for him, changing places, taking his spot in Azkaban, suffering the dementors in his place. She had never stood up to Father for him, or supported his dreams, but she had done that – saving him from a fate worse than death, at the cost of her own life.

If there was one thing he regretted, now, it was that he had never believed her, before, when she had claimed her love for him. He had convinced himself that she didn’t, that he wasn’t betraying her as much as _him_ in joining the Dark, but now… Now he wished he could have been a better son to her, if not to his father.

He should never have let her do it – her life wasn’t worth his, not when _this_ was all there was to it.

“Say something, you bastard!” he swiped the carving knife from the platter and hurled it the length of the table before his father could disarm him, but not before he shielded himself, the blade deflected harmlessly. It clattered to the floor, the house elf scurrying to pick it up.

_Too slow_ , he thought. _Too_ slow. Bellatrix’s voice echoed in the back of his mind: _“Poor ickle baby Barty… so sad and angry because nobody loves you… don’t worry, we’ll teach you how to make them pay_ …” and then _“Again. Again! Too slow, baby Barty! Do it again!”_ endless repetition, endless training… she would, he thought, be disappointed that he hadn’t managed to kill the bastard and escape by now.

Finally, the old man spoke, dabbing at his lips and lying his napkin aside. “I see you still do not repent your actions.”

Barty scoffed. “Repent? _Repent_? Fancy yourself the Christian God, then? Shall I turn to you and beg you forgive me, and so have my sins wiped out? Beat at my breast and call my Lord’s Mark the shame and disgrace of my youth? _I have nothing to be sorry for_ , you hypocritical _madman_!”

That, at last, drew a reaction from the old man. “ _Nothing to be sorry for_? How many men, women and children did you kill? How many did you torture on the orders of your so-called _lord_? How many Unforgivables have you cast? I should have let you rot in Azkaban! At least then your mother –” he broke off with a strained gasp, though he did not break down into tears. Barty wasn’t sure he had it in him to cry.

He spat venom, ignoring the last, cutting comment. “I could ask you the same, _father_ : How many men, women and children died because you would not leave well enough alone? Because you escalated a war you were neither prepared nor equipped to end? How many suffered because _you_ failed to manage the unexpected consequences of _your_ actions? I have cast fewer Unforgivables than you – if I deserve the dementors, you do as well, a hundred times over!”

It was not, after all, as though his father had the moral high ground.

In truth he had killed, and more than once, but only those who attacked him first, and only quickly, cleanly. His job had been to break wards, to open doors for his fellow soldiers. One could make the argument that he was as culpable as they, for they could not have acted without his help, but he knew that his father would not take responsibility for the Death Eaters’ responses to his actions, so neither would Barty take the credit.

Both sides had committed atrocities in the War, he would admit, but _he_ was a far sight less responsible for the actions of his fellow Death Eaters than his father was for the actions of the Aurors and Hit Wizards under his command.

The Aurors had been authorized to use the Unforgivables against suspected Death Eaters. The rights of prisoners had been suspended. There was no limit to the time a suspected Death Eater could be held without trial, and when they _had_ been given a trial, it was a farce, designed to showcase his father’s righteousness rather than determine the truth of events and assign punishment accordingly! The so-called Light had been no better than the Dark by the end of it, only proving their point that the Government was entirely corrupt, and determined to crush all semblance of freedom beneath its heel.

“I will give you one last chance, boy…” his father said, glaring.

Barty scowled mutinously. He had not been a _boy_ for decades. “Just because you refuse to recognize your own culpability doesn’t mean it isn’t true!” he hissed – the last word before the Imperius struck, flying openly down the length of the table. It wasn’t as though he could have dodged.

The vaguely pleasant, golden glow enveloped his mind, and the sweetest, most delightful of voices spoke, telling him to calm down and eat his dinner.

He did.

Why wouldn’t he be calm? There was a niggling sort of thought at the back of his mind, as though he had just been thinking something, but had forgotten it all of a sudden, as he realized just how hungry he was. It probably wasn’t important, if he had forgotten it so easily. He was vaguely aware of voices speaking, distantly, at the other end of the table, but they weren’t any more important than whatever he had forgotten he was thinking about. He was far more focused on the meal before him, and the Voice telling him to return to his room when he was finished, to prepare for bed, to not even think of leaving the house, or doing anything to harm himself or his father.

“Enjoy your meal,” the Voice said.

Barty smiled vaguely down the table, all worries and concerns vanished in an instant, in favor of appreciating the savor and tenderness of the meat, and the rich bouquet of the wine. The man sitting across the length of polished wood – his father, he recalled distantly – did not seem nearly so pleased with it, however. He stood abruptly and left the room without excusing himself.

Barty shrugged, calmly applying himself to his dinner.

“Blessed be, Master Barty,” Winky whispered from the corner, her large, elfin eyes swimming with unshed tears. Then she whacked her head sharply against the wall for thinking ill thoughts about the young Master’s father, but he took no notice, concerned only with the Imperius-enforced orders which once again encircled his mind with their deceptive golden chains.

 


	23. A Proper Muggle Christmas

###  Saturday, 25 December 1993

#### Granger Home, East Farleigh, Kent

The days immediately following Yule were, indeed, better than Yule itself, leading Mary to suspect that there might have been some sort of magic in her wish, despite the fact that she hadn’t _felt_ any magic at work. She also more rationally suspected that Emma had found the time and privacy to give her daughter a stern talking-to about a necessary attitude adjustment while Dan and Mary had been out gathering the ingredients for the Christmas Supper they had planned. Though Hermione awkwardly refused to acknowledge her previously horrid behavior, or the fight that they had had at the Moons’, her attitude did improve. She joined her parents and Mary as they braved the hordes of last-minute Christmas shoppers at the local mall, and she seemed to be having as much fun as anyone, switching groups and attempting to buy gifts for the others without any of them seeing their presents.

Mary had gotten a stereotypical Christmas tie for Dan, on Emma’s advice. It had little reindeer in Santa-hats on it. Hermione had gotten him a “matching” (horribly clashing) tie-pin shaped like a candy-cane. Dan had advised both Mary and Hermione on a set of bath-bubbles and candles for Emma that smelled like baking sugar cookies. Much as she knew Hermione didn’t mind getting books from almost everyone, Mary wanted to get the older girl something completely frivolous, like last year’s scarf. She ended up debating between a pair of dangling earrings with little gold stars, and a tiny painting of an owl in flight, against a backdrop of the moon, only the size of her hand. She eventually decided that the owl was more Luna than Hermione.

She had almost forgotten that she picked up a muggle fountain pen for Lilian over the summer. When she remembered, she bought the American legal thriller bestseller she had been considering for her birthday instead. After a bit of dithering over whether she ought to get something for Ginny, she decided yes, if only because she had picked up the painting for Luna. Nothing she had seen had really shouted _Ginny_ at her, though, so eventually she settled on a ring with a reddish orange stone, on the assumption that it had to be more or less appropriate, since Ginny had given her a ring as an Egyptian souvenir/birthday present.

Catherine received a much more expensive cameo-brooch from the same store, and the Professor a silver locket with an ornate _M_ picked out in tiny amethysts. Mary was fairly certain Catherine would have mentioned it by now if she was expected to send “Belated Yule Gifts” to the elder Urquharts, but she hadn’t thought to ask about the younger kids. She put together a collection of muggle sweets to be passed along to them, anyway, if Catherine thought that was appropriate.

She had already exchanged similar packages with most of her acquaintances in Slytherin, since most of them didn’t know where to send an owl. Her circle had expanded again when she wasn’t looking, to include Blaise and Theo, Dave, Alex, and Nora alongside the new and current members of the Quidditch team, former team-mates who were still at school, and the other members of the Conspiracy (including Aerin, but not the twins, with whom she was still not on friendly terms). Everyone had strictly agreed not to open them until Christmas, even though they all knew they had gotten each other more or less the same things. She had taken her best guess as to who would actually wait when she was writing notes to go along with them, and had already gotten a thank-you from Dave, who had apparently opened his as soon as he got home, only to discover her ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to wait, but Happy Early Christmas anyway.’

She had wavered on sending Remus a little painting like the one she had found for Luna, but with a wolf howling at the moon, instead of an owl, before she decided that he probably didn’t want to be reminded of his ‘Furry Little Problem’ at Christmas. She sent him a ‘World’s Best Uncle’ mug stuffed with Swiss chocolate instead. Snape received a mug that said ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps.’ (Anonymously, both in reference to the potions knife she was almost positive he had sent, and so that he couldn’t technically hold it against her if he didn’t like it. She thought he would, though. She could just _see_ him sipping his usual morning coffee in front of Dumbledore, making sure the old wizard saw the phrase and pretending he wasn’t doing so as a deliberate comment on the state of the school.)

Neville’s grandmother invited the elder Grangers over for tea on Thursday. Neither Emma nor Dan said much about the experience, other than describing Madam Longbottom as ‘very formidable’ and the house itself as ‘somewhat intimidating.’ It must have gone well enough, though, because they did agree to allow Mary to accompany the Longbottoms to St. Mungo’s on Christmas day. She was to floo to theirs at ten, and then they would all head to the hospital together. She would return well before Lilian came over for dinner. Aerin had decided not to attend, since her friend Lara was free to visit the Moons’ over the weekend.

Mary realized at the last minute (after opening all of her own gifts on Christmas morning) that she hadn’t gotten anything for Neville, and frantically re-wrapped some of the candies and chocolates from her stash, reasoning that she would have bought the same sort of things for him anyway. Dan thought this was hilarious, since he had been tasked with finding a proper bottle of wine for her to take for Madam Longbottom after the adults’ meeting. Mary had even accompanied him on that hunt, so there was no reason she ought to have forgotten that she needed a gift for Neville, but she had anyway. She was absolutely _kicking_ herself over not asking whether there was something she could bring for Alice and Frank as well. It sounded like they weren’t well enough to appreciate most gifts, but it would have been polite to ask.

Opening presents around the Christmas tree the morning of the holiday was a novel experience. Mary had expected that Hermione’s gifts would far outnumber her own, much like Dudley’s had always done, but she hadn’t accounted for the fact that most of the Grangers’ family lived abroad. Dan’s mother had sent a box of cheeses and wines from France for the family, and a first edition of a novel called _La Chartreuse de Parme_ for Hermione. Emma’s nephew Mike had sent a very nice basket of cakes and biscuits down from London, along with what Mary understood to be an expected note declining to join them for dinner, citing unexpected work demands.

The Grangers themselves had given Mary more or less the gift she had expected: three new jumpers and denims with room to grow. Hermione had given her a green hairband with little silver snakes embroidered on it, which had to have come from Hogsmeade. Luna had sent both of them friendship bracelets, knotted from different colored threads. Mary could feel magic tingling through hers as soon as she put it on. The note said that it would keep her safe from torvoluds, whatever those were supposed to be, and help her find light in the darkness. Whether this meant literal or metaphorical darkness was unclear. Ginny had given the girls hand-made cards and packages of fudge, which had Mary kicking herself again: she knew that the Weasleys didn’t have much money, and hoped that the younger girl wasn’t embarrassed about the fact that Mary’s present to her had been much more expensive.

Catherine had sent a small bottle of perfume that shifted its scent according to the wearer’s mood, and Remus had given her a very well-annotated copy of The Enchanter’s Handbook. His note said that she might find it useful, as she started trying to apply the Runes she was learning in class, but the real gift, she was sure, was the notes scribbled in the margins, from ‘ _I think Tockley was high when he wrote this whole chapter – L’_ to the tiny doodles of three four-legged creatures that might have been… horses? Dogs? There was a slash where the quill had been dragged away from the page, and it was captioned ‘Jamie can’t draw for shite,’ signed with a hasty sketch of a winking dog.

Remus was, she decided, still winning the award for best gift-giver ever. Lilian and the Professor hadn’t sent anything, because she would be seeing them in person later that evening and on Monday, respectively, but she doubted they would top a book full of notes for and about her parents. Plus it _was_ useful. She still needed to put together wards for her bedroom next year.

Clothes and books featured prominently in Hermione’s gifts, too, and the adults had gotten presents from the Weasleys, the Lovegoods, and the Tonkses: hats and scarves knitted with warming charms, a box of migrating glass tree ornaments, and a bottle of elf-made wine. The Lovegoods’ ornaments were a particular success. Two of them established a nest near the star, and the others slowly expanded their range over the course of breakfast. By the time Mary was ready to leave for the Longbottoms’, they were beginning to explore the living-room at large. A floating snowflake had taken up residence in the new Flutterby bush, and was defending its territory from all the others, much to the Grangers’ amusement.

Uncertain of what to expect when she arrived, but very certain that she wanted to meet her godmother, regardless of whether the witch could recognize her, Mary threw her winter cloak over her nicest every-day robes (black, but with a more dress-like cut than her school robes) and marched out the back door, across the porch and the garden, and into the Floo Shed. Dan waved encouragingly at her from the kitchen window as she closed the door firmly behind her. She held the bottle of wine tightly in one hand as she tossed the floo powder with the other and enunciated ‘Longbottom Manor’ clearly as she stepped up and into the green flames.

#### Longbottom Manor

She tripped, of course, on exiting the Longbottom’s fire, stumbling over her cloak-hem. Neville was waiting to welcome her, and tried to help, but she ended up pulling him down with her.

“Bloody hell,” she grumbled, as he scrambled to his feet and gallantly offered her a hand.

“’s okay,” the boy said with a self-depreciating smile. “I do that all the time. At least Gran’s not here to see.”

“Well, I guess there is that,” Mary flushed, dusting off her robes with a few sweeps of her wand. “And I didn’t drop the wine. There has _got_ to be a trick to that, though.”

“Uncle Algie says it’s just practice,” Neville shrugged, and Mary belatedly recalled her manners. This wasn’t Hogwarts, after all, and there _were_ adults around _somewhere._

She bent her knees, sweeping her skirts free of the floor with her free hand. “Greetings, Heir Longbottom,” she said, nodding smoothly.

Neville gave her a funny little half-smile, but he clicked his heels together and bowed properly. “Welcome to my family seat, Heir Potter. My grandmother eagerly awaits your meeting.” Then he dropped the pretense. “She’ll appreciate the bowing, too, but you don’t have to with me. I mean, we’re friends, aren’t we?” He added the last bit slightly hesitantly, as though he really wasn’t sure.

“Of course we are,” Mary said firmly. “I brought you a Christmas present. Or, um… ‘Belated Yule’ if you don’t celebrate Christmas.” She pulled the bag of sweets from her pocket and held it out expectantly.

The Gryffindor flushed. “Yeah, um… we do. Happy Christmas,” he said, pulling a rather untidy package from his own robe pocket for her. She felt a surge of relief not to have overstepped. They exchanged gifts, and Neville offered to take the wine as well.

“Oh, yeah, of course. Here. It’s from the Grangers, as a holiday gift to the Longbottom Household.”

“Thanks. I’ll send them a note. Or Gran will. She really likes the sculpture, by the way.” Mary had no idea what sculpture he was talking about. Something Emma had brought for their first meeting, maybe? “But yeah, um… _Poppy!_ ”

An old elf appeared, wearing a pillowsheet with the Longbottom crest worked over one shoulder. It bowed low, and Neville handed over the wine, then hesitated. “Would you like her to take your cloak? I mean, we are leaving soon…”

Mary wavered. It wouldn’t be polite to look too eager to go, but she didn’t want to trouble the elf to pop in and out too often. “I can just leave it here, if that’s alright?” she suggested. Navigating a proper visit to another Noble house without Catherine’s immediate guidance was _hard_.

Neville nodded almost too quickly. “That’s fine. Here!” he helped her out of it, laying it carefully over a bench, folded so that the damp, trailing end wouldn’t touch the upholstery or the collar. “Shall we go through, then?” he offered, holding out an arm.

She laid her hand atop his, as though he was escorting her to dinner or a ball, and nodded determinedly. He led her through long, under-lit corridors, paneled to waist-height with dark, heavy wood, with lightly-striped green silk wallpaper rising to crown molding, and a ceiling lost in shadows. There were long, plush rugs laid along the center of each hallway, dampening the sound of their footsteps, and both the walls and the floorboards were polished like nice furniture. Everything about the atmosphere screamed understated old money, rather like the Urquharts’ mansion, but less lived-in.

After a moment, the wizard smiled shyly. “Do you mind if I ask… who’s been teaching you etiquette and such?”

“Well, I think it’s supposed to be somewhat of a secret,” Mary smirked, “but almost everyone knows anyway. Professor McGonagall arranged for me to be fostered with the Urquharts. Their daughter Catherine has been my primary tutor in the arts of society these past two summers,” she added, falling smoothly back into the structures of the formal dialogue Mrs. Urquhart and Lady Urquhart demanded of her. She was certain Madam Longbottom would want nothing less, if even _Emma_ described her as _formidable._

“Please extend to her my compliments, then, for the polish she has added to your natural charm,” Neville said, then made a face. “The problem with these lines is it always sounds like I’m insulting someone,” he complained. “Like I’m saying you needed the help, or like she hasn’t done anything for you. Or both. I’m no good at it at all. What I mean to say is, you’re doing _way_ better than I did on my first formal visit, and I’m impressed.”

Mary smiled, his irritable attitude putting her a bit more at ease with the whole situation than his blatant nervousness had done. “Thanks, I think. I just hope your grandmother is as impressed.”

“You’ll be fine,” he reassured her. “Just as long as you don’t show any weakness. This is it.” He stopped in front of a closed door, knocked twice, and opened it with a sweeping motion that indicated she should go ahead of him.

The room was a parlor, much better-lit and more lightly decorated than anything she had seen thus far. The furniture was just as dark and heavy as the paneling, but there were two large windows with open curtains, catching the morning sun. Two people who _had_ to be Madam Longbottom and Algernon ‘Uncle Algie’ Longbottom were seated before one of these. He was reading the Prophet. She had just laid her napkin across her plate. Mr. Longbottom didn’t look up, but Madam Longbottom fixed her with a gimlet gaze as she waited for Neville to close the door and resume escorting her.

“So you’d be Mary Potter, would you, girl?” she said in the slightly-too-loud voice of an old lady whose hearing is going. She couldn’t have been more than about sixty or seventy, which wasn’t _very_ old for a witch, but there was something about her that made her seem much older and frailer. “Come here and let’s have a look at you!” She held out a hand expectantly, though she did not deign to stand.

Neville wasn’t at her side again, yet, but Mary didn’t dare disobey, and he _had_ said to show no fear. She straightened her back and strode up to the table, looking down her nose at the intimidating old woman and dipping into the appropriate curtsey, bowing her head over the extended hand. “Greetings and glad tidings, Madam Longbottom,” she said, shoving aside her nervousness. She was almost positive it didn’t show in her tone.

“Heir Potter,” the reedy old voice acknowledged her.

She rose and made a much more perfunctory bow toward Mr. Longbottom, who only grunted from behind his paper. By that time, Neville had arrived, and he helped his grandmother to her feet. Mary tried not to fidget as the woman circled her, examining her dress and hair, her posture and poise. It was all correctly demure and proper, except for her hair, which she had cut off sometime in November, when she had gotten tired of sitting on the end of her braid. It was now short enough that it had reverted to wild curls, and she had taken to piling it on top of her head as Hermione had done after the night they had spent in the Great Hall. It was still a riotous mess, but at least it was out of the way.

“I suppose you’ll do,” the stern witch pronounced at length. The girl thought she heard her fellow third-year give a sigh of relief. “You’ll not be joining us, Algernon?” she asked.

The man, jowly and balding, finally turned down his paper to glare at her. “No, _Mother_ , I have no desire whatsoever to join you in paying court to my brother’s living corpse!”

Mary had to work hard to keep from gaping at his blatant rudeness.

It seemed Madam Longbottom was equally offended. “Don’t mind my son, Miss Mary,” she said sharply. “He always did resent Franklin’s greater talent and skill. Took after my Angus, Franklin did. Pity neither Algernon nor Neville here seems to have inherited the same natural talent.”

Algernon grumbled, and Neville kept his head down, as though he hadn’t heard. Mary wracked her brains for a suitably inoffensive reply. “Your husband sounds like a great wizard,” she offered weakly. She would have liked to come up with a subtle snub to defend Neville, but she was rather at a loss.

The dowager harrumphed, but nodded, and took up an absolutely horrid hat, pinning it sharply in place. The stuffed vulture mounted atop it wobbled precariously. “ _Poppy, my fox_!” she nearly shouted, and the elf popped in with a rather battered fur stole.

Mary silently thanked the powers that they could take the floo directly to the hospital, because she couldn’t imagine being seen in public with Madam Longbottom in _that_ getup.

“Your muggles, those Grangers, they seemed to be a decent sort, for muggles, of course,” the old woman said, apparently intent on carrying on with the conversation come hell or high water. Or more likely, extreme embarrassment for all parties other than herself.

“The Grangers have been very gracious to me,” Mary replied evenly.

The witch cackled as her grandson escorted her toward the floo. “Very gracious indeed! I like this one, Neville! You could learn from this one! My boy tells me you’re his potions partner? Must say, I’m impressed you’re still in one piece, half the letters I’ve had from that professor of yours!”

Mary was finding it rather difficult to keep her temper. Madam Longbottom reminded her of Madam Urquhart, picking at the little flaws without even trying to be polite. It wasn’t _constructive_ criticism, just criticism. “Neville and I have only been partners for a short time, but he has held up his end of the brewing perfectly competently.” That wasn’t true at all. Neville knew a lot about the ingredients, and he could probably brew competently outside of the classroom, but Snape’s presence clearly unnerved him enough that his timing was almost always off, and he often switched the steps around in his head, even if he had just written them down. “Perhaps the difficulties stemmed from his former partner. It’s well-known that certain of his fellow Gryffindors… have a gift for exothermic reactions.”

That _was_ true, but unfortunately Madam Longbottom caught the look of thanks Neville sent at Mary, giving away the lie. It seemed, however, that she was not offended. On the contrary, she cackled again. “Hold onto this one, Neville-boy!” she grinned. “Any girl who’ll lie to your family for you is a keeper!” Mary felt her face go scarlet as the old woman turned back to her. “Right silver-tongued little serpent, aren’t you? But then, I suppose that’s expected of the Heir of Slytherin. Do you know, I was at school when the _last_ Heir of Slytherin came about? Not one of us students actually believed it was that Hagrid bloke, of course. He was a _Gryffindor_ for one, and a half-giant to boot!”

“Who did you think it was, Grandmother?” Neville asked politely as she fumbled for the floo powder.

“Hah, well, that was the question, wasn’t it? Slytherin tried to put it around that it was one of the seventh-years, those that graduated that year, because the attacks stopped, you see. But the smart money was on one of the boys in my year, dapper chap called Riddle.” Mary had to stop herself flinching under the old woman’s sharp eyes. “He was always a bit unnerving, Riddle. But until that year, he’d been sort of an outcast. Whip-smart, and everyone knew he was a Parselmouth, but he was an impoverished orphan, and a half-blood at best, so there was always talk that he’d got it from an Indian wizard somewhere down the line, or American – not Slytherin, see? But then after the Chamber, the rest of Slytherin became a bit _deferent_ to him. Not that he had the time of day for them before or after. Awfully stuck-up, he was. No idea what happened to him after school. I expect he was killed in the war.” _If only you knew_ , Mary thought. “Anyway, shall we, boy?”

Neville nodded, and she stepped forward into the fire, calling for “St. Mungo’s Reception” as she did.

“I’m _so_ sorry about that,” the boy flushed, holding out the tin of floo-powder, every bit as red as Mary had been before the discussion. “Erm, both the Heir of Slytherin thing and, um… before.”

“It’s fine,” she replied, too quickly. “She’s just, um…”

“Old,” he finished. “And awful. Don’t tell her I said that,” he added, eyes wide at his own daring.

She giggled slightly. “Oh, I lie about your potions skills, so you think I’ll lie about anything, do you?” she teased.

“Well, that _was_ a much _bigger_ lie… this is just a little omission, right?”

She took a pinch of the powder, still laughing, and threw it into the fire. She thought she heard him calling “Right?” again behind her in a more worried tone as she stepped into the spinning flames.

Neville followed her through so closely that he nearly bowled her over, as she was still stumbling over her feet. Madam Longbottom tisked at their mutual clumsiness, muttering something about three-footed jackalopes, but led them up to the fourth floor and the Janus Thickly ward without further comment.

“Healer Patil!” she announced, as they stepped off the lift. “I’m here to see my son and daughter-in-law!”

Healer Patil was a tall, smiling blonde woman, perhaps forty years old. Mary wondered if she was related to Padma and Parvati. If so, it had to be through marriage, because she certainly didn’t _look_ Indian. “Madam Longbottom, of course! I know Alice is expecting you. Frank is having a good day, too! Hello, Neville, and” (she did a double-take) “that can’t be Mary Potter?”

Mary nodded. “Hello, Healer Patil,” she said stiffly.

“Are you here to visit the Longbottoms as well?”

“Of course she is,” Madam Longbottom interceded. “Our Alice _is_ her godmother, after all!”

“Oh, _oh_! Yes, of course! I had forgotten that Lily, well… Never you mind. Go on in. It’s Healer Chesterfield on duty at the moment, and Trainee Healer Pye. It’s his first year, so do go easy on him, won’t you, Madame?”

“I… shall consider it,” she said magnanimously, then swept toward the locked door at the end of the hallway, opening it with a quick _alohomora_. The children hurried to follow.

There were ten beds on the ward, but only eight were occupied. An older wizard was tending to a woman who had fur covering her face. She seemed to be responding to questions by barking once for yes and twice for no. They could see the trainee’s bright green trousers moving around behind a curtain with another patient, in the next bed down, and it seemed that the two closest to the door were asleep. Mary couldn’t tell what was wrong with them, but there was a wizard who was completely blue, with weeping purple pustules on his face and arms, in the fifth bed. His fingers were in his ears and he was glaring at the barking woman. The sixth bed had its curtains closed, too.

Madam Longbottom waved to Healer Chesterfield as she led the way as quickly as she could to the very end of the room, past the blue wizard, and took a seat between the last two beds. There was a too-thin, white-haired witch in one bed, struggling to escape the covers in her lilac bathrobe, her limbs obviously weak, either from her ailment, or disuse. She didn’t look at them. The other bed held a wizard, obviously worse-off than his wife, propped up on a pile of pillows. He was drooling slightly, but his eyes tracked his mother when she sat down.

“Hello, Frank, my dear boy,” Madam Longbottom cooed. “And Alice – you look as lovely as ever. Happy Christmas!” she pulled a pair of small boxes from her pocket with overdone cheer, handing one to Neville and moving her chair closer to her son’s bed to unwrap his for him.

“Stay in bed, mum,” Neville said softly, placing a hand gently on his mother’s shoulder and easing her back down to sit, then joined her on the edge of the bed. “No need to get up on our account. Look, we’ve brought you a Christmas present.”

Mary saw him swallow hard as Alice plucked feebly at the ribbons on the box, then handed it back to him. He started untying them carefully, setting them aside one at a time. “Mum, we’ve brought you another visitor as well. Do you recognize her?”

Alice looked up, first at Neville, then Mary. A flash of hatred crossed her face.

“This is – _Mum_?!”

Alice had moved faster than Mary had thought her capable, pulling herself to her unstable feet and fumbling at Neville’s pockets. He didn’t fight her – probably afraid he would hurt her accidentally.

“A – Alice?” Mary said hesitantly.

The woman attempted to say something, but all that came out was a low, “Nnnnn.”

Madam Longbottom’s head whipped around. “ _Alice_?”

Mary took a step forward, holding her hands out in the universal gesture of I-mean-no-harm, but the witch only grew more agitated. She fumbled Neville’s wand from his pocket and tried to push him behind her, holding the weapon between the two of them and Mary defensively, despite her hand shaking and jerking wildly. “ _Nnnn. Nnn mmmm nnnn._ ”

“Mum! What’s wrong?”

“Alice?”

Mary took a step back. “I – I’m sorry! I’ll go!”

The witch brandished the wand at her, a bright green light glowing at its tip. Mary didn’t know what spell had that particular shade, but she had a feeling it wasn’t good.

“Alice, no!” Madam Longbottom shouted, trying to hobble around the bed. Her eyes were wide and frightened. “No, Alice! It’s not her! It’s not her! Chesterfield!” Her own wand was out, now, and Alice was wavering between Mary, still hastily backing away, hands in the air, and her mother-in-law, batting at Neville’s hands as he tried to take his wand back without hurting her. _Mary’s_ wand was still uselessly stowed in her pocket. “Chesterfield!” Madam Longbottom shrieked again.

A rather lanky young man who looked barely older than a seventh-year sneaked around the half-drawn curtain on the other side of the bed, and sent a disarming charm at the disturbed patient. Neville’s wand went flying, and the witch made another horrible, “Nnnn!” sound, pushing Neville away from Mary with both hands, while looking fearfully over her shoulder. “Nnnn! Rnnn!”

Healer Chesterfield was closing in on the two of them, now, making soothing noises, but it didn’t seem to be helping.

“You should probably go,” the trainee healer said quietly, taking Mary’s arm and pulling her away, toward the door. She looked back once to see the weak, cursed witch glaring fiercely at her under Chesterfield’s arm, blocking Neville in as he attempted to follow her. Healer Patil brushed past them, hurrying to assist.

“What happened?” Mary asked desperately. “I – I don’t understand!”

“Just… keep walking. Don’t make a scene, it’ll set more of them off.”

“What did I _do_?” Mary sniffed. She hadn’t _thought_ she had done anything wrong, but Alice had seemed to _hate_ her.

“Hey, now,” the young healer said gently, handing her a tissue. “You didn’t do anything. Here, sit down.” He guided her onto a bench near a rubbish bin. “To be honest, Chesterfield and Patil are probably having a field day in there – that’s the most activity we’ve seen out of Alice in _years_.”

“But she – she looked like she _hated_ me!”

“Well…” the healer – Pye? – hesitated. “Do you know what happened to her, to the Longbottoms?”

“I – Bellatrix Lestrange used a torture spell on them? Cruciartus, I think Neville said?”

“The cruciatus,” Probably Pye corrected her.

“But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well,” he hedged again. “You see, there’s a bit of a… _resemblance,_ between certain members of the Old Families…”

“Oh, just spit it out, Pye!” Madam Longbottom said, finally catching up to them, slightly out of breath. “You look just like Bella Black, when she was your age. I went to school with Dorea, your grandmother, you know. Her face was rounder. Bit more Lestrange to her, around the eyes. You’ve got Lily’s eyes, but that’s easy to overlook when the rest of you is, well…” she motioned vaguely at Mary.

“Erm… if you don’t mind, Madam Longbottom, I’m going to see whether the healers need my help,” Pye excused himself awkwardly.

Madam Longbottom ignored him. “I’ll show you a picture when we get back to the manor – I think I’ve got a copy of her debutante photo somewhere. It would have been ’64 or ’65, the same as my cousin Eddie, anyway – I remember because his mother wanted him to escort her. I should’ve seen it myself, but it’s been – Powers, nearly thirty years…”

“God,” Mary muttered. “I’m so sorry! I had no idea! I just – I just wanted to meet her. She’s my _godmother_ , and she can’t even stand the sight of me!” She tilted her head back, willing her tears not to fall, but it was no good. Madam Longbottom transfigured her tissue into a proper handkerchief.

“Mop your eyes, there’s a good girl,” she said. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Wh-why are you being so n-nice to me? I – I ruined your visit a-and…”

“And you just gave my grandson the best Christmas gift he’s ever likely to get from his parents,” the old woman said sharply.

“I… _what?_ ”

“Alice tried to _protect Neville_. She _knows who he is_. It’s the only sign we’ve had in twelve years that the people they once were are still in there, somewhere.”

Mary didn’t know what to say. Honestly, she thought it was even _worse_ to know that they were still in there, trapped in their own minds. She sniffed again, trying hard to get herself back under control before Neville reappeared.

It was a good thing she did, because he came down the hall a few seconds later, looking torn between excitement and sadness. He kept shooting longing looks back at the door to the closed ward.

“None of that, now, Neville,” Madam Longbottom chided. “We can come back tomorrow, after they’ve had time to settle a bit.”

Neville nodded slightly. “I’d like that.”

“Come along, then,” his grandmother said, clutching at his shoulder. He winced.

Mary followed them back to the lifts and through the floo in silence, save for shouting the name of the destination. Once they had arrived, she made her excuses to return to the Grangers’ almost at once. Neville looked a bit disappointed that she was going so soon, and Madam Longbottom insisted Mary stay long enough to at least have a look at the photo, which turned into rather a longer wait than she had expected, as the photo Madam Longbottom was thinking of was _not_ in fact, in the book she expected, but the one from the year prior.

“Ah! Here it is!” she finally said, tapping a gnarled finger against the page. Two girls were dancing together, spinning wildly before flashing breathless, triumphant grins at the camera. Bellatrix Black could have been Mary’s sister: pale and lean, with wide, deep-set eyes, and a riot of black curls piled on top of her head. Her dress was black as well, and flared out in layers when she spun. Her friend wore red, setting off a deeply tanned complexion and golden-brown hair. She was more curvaceous, wearing very high heels so that the girls would be exactly the same height, and had startlingly bright, violet eyes. She winked when they paused for the photographer. “Bella Black and Bella Zabini, age fourteen. They were too young – shouldn’t have been there, but no one was about to tell them to leave.”

It was disturbing, Mary thought, to see these two girls who would grow up to be murderers, just a year older than herself, dancing as though they hadn’t a care in the world. But not nearly as disturbing as the tall, pale, dark-haired man, with the bright blue eyes and the enigmatic smile who stood in the background watching them. He raised his glass toward the camera as though in a toast when the girls stopped to grin at it. She scowled at him, and closed the book with a snap. “Thank you for showing me, Madam Longbottom. I agree, the resemblance is uncanny. Now please, if you’ll excuse me, I really do have to go,” she added abruptly.

“Of course, dear,” Madam Longbottom said, oblivious to the tension singing through Mary’s veins, but apparently satisfied to let her go now that the picture had been found. “You are welcome back any time. Neville will see you out.” She extended a hand, and Mary curtsied over it, before nearly dragging Neville out of the room.

“I’m sorry,” she said, as soon as they were alone.

“What for?” He looked genuinely confused.

“What – for getting your mum all worked up, and making you sit through all of those pictures to find the one of Black and Zabini and the Dark Lord!”

“Wait – _what_? I mean, it’s fine – mum will be fine, and she tried to save me from, well, you, but it’s the thought that counts, you know? More than fine. And that’s honestly about the least awful hour I’ve ever spent with Gran. But did you just say You Know Who was in that picture?”

Mary nodded sharply. “He was the one in the black and silver robes. Looked like he was about twenty-five. Dark hair, blue eyes. He raised his glass when the girls stopped spinning. That was him. Tom Riddle. I’m sure of it.”

“That guy Gran said was the last Heir of Slytherin? How do you know that?”

She froze as she realized that there was no reasonable answer she could give to that question, without admitting that she had come face to face with the young Dark Lord in the Chamber of Secrets. “I probably shouldn’t tell you,” she admitted, squirming slightly under his scrutiny.

“Why _not_?”

“I’ve already said too much. Honestly. I promised Snape I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Is this something to do with the Chamber of Secrets?”

_Damn_ , he was smart for a Gryffindor. “I’m not saying it doesn’t, because that would be a lie, but I can’t confirm your supposition,” she nodded.

“Ah… got it. I think. It’s true, though? You Know Who’s real name is Tom Riddle? That kid who went to school with my Gran?”

“And you’ve got a picture of him, now. Not sure how much good it will do, but… yeah, that was definitely him.”

A grim look passed over Neville’s face. “I don’t know either, but it can’t hurt to know, can it? I think I’ll see what I can do about connecting the dots a bit more solidly, and start passing the word around about You Know Who’s illustrious origins.”

Mary sniggered. “Do. It’s bound to at least tweak a few noses in Slytherin.” _And Dumbledore’s_ , she realized, recalling that the old man hadn’t wanted to tell her Riddle’s real name back in first year. “Maybe look into the connection between Riddle and Dumbledore, too, while you’re at it,” she added, on a whim.

“What? Why? Is there one?”

“I don’t know, but he knows Riddle’s secret identity, and he’s not telling anyone – there has to be a reason for that. And I bet you’ll get further asking about it than I would. No one trusts the Heir of Slytherin, you see.” She pulled a woe-is-me face, then smirked.

“Mary… No one trusts _any_ Slytherins,” Neville said in a tone suggesting she was mentally deficient. “It’s just good sense.”

“You’re actually quite snarky, aren’t you?”

The boy blushed. “Not – not usually. It’s not polite. But, well… politeness isn’t really highly valued around here.”

Mary nodded understandingly. Subtle sarcasm had been her friend at the Dursleys’, but Madam and Mr. Longbottom were far more blatantly rude than Aunt Petunia ever had been. “I really should go. The Grangers had plans for this afternoon.”

Neville nodded understandingly, but then, as she stepped toward the floo, he said, “Wait!”

“What is it?”

“Your cloak,” he pointed.

“Thanks, Neville,” she sighed, retrieving it from its bench.

“And, um… are you planning to keep up with dueling club next term?” he added, before she could turn back toward the fire.

“Of course,” she grinned. Dueling club was currently one of her favorite things about Hogwarts. She was looking forward to getting back to school, and seeing how open practice sessions went.

“You should go to Piecemail’s over the break and get a dueling knife. It’s down Knockturn, but only like, one or two shops in. And then talk to Mallory Prince or Sheena Davis about how to use it.”

Out of all the things he might have said, that was not one Mary had been expecting. “A knife? Why?”

“You’re a seeker, and you take after the Blacks,” he said, as though this meant something.

“So?”

“ _So_ , you’re small and quick. Agile. You’re better suited to a knife than a longer blade. And if you ask the Urquharts or McG or, hell, even _Malfoy_ , and they’ll tell you that all the Black ladies know how to use a knife. It gives you more versatility – wand for long and middle range, and then the knife for up-close fighting.”

“Um… thanks?”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he smirked, looking supremely confident for the first time since she had arrived. It looked surprisingly good on him. “Wait and see if you feel that way after our first blade-match.”

“You’re… not a knife-fighter, are you?”

“Nope. Infantry sabre,” he grinned. “It’s one of my better useless pureblood skills.”

“Useless pureblood skills?”

“You know, knowing when and how to bow, dancing the gavotte, speaking Welsh – that sort of thing.”

Mary laughed at the face he made. “Knowing when and how to bow impresses scary old ladies – it’s not _completely_ useless.”

“That’s true. You did impress Gran. I think you’re the first person she’s ever said could come over whenever they like. Of course, the only other person I’ve tried to have over was Ron, and that was a _disaster_.” He rolled his eyes, and Mary winced.

“Yeah… I don’t imagine that would have gone over well,” she smirked.

“Whatever you’re imagining, I guarantee it was at least twice as bad,” he said drily.

“I don’t know… what I’m imagining is pretty bad…”

“He tried to talk me out of Runes in front of her, in favor of Care of Magical Creatures with _Hagrid_.”

“Did you _know_ it was Hagrid?”

“No, just some nutter who assigned a biting textbook.”

“Merlin, that thing was awful. I think my copy might have died. It’s still sitting in a cage under my desk at school. I never got around to trying to pawn it off on Pince.”

“ _Can_ books die from neglect?”

“Maybe?”

They both broke down into giggles at the absurdity of their conversation. “Listen, Neville,” Mary said, after a minute of helpless laughter. “This, talking, has been… fun. Despite, you know… If you want to hang out, back at school, the girls and I will probably be in the Library most Saturdays, for at least part of the day. Not sure exactly what hours, yet, but you should come.”

“I – yeah. Okay. Um. I’ll… think about it?” The shy smile was back. It seemed Neville was only funny and confident when he wasn’t thinking too hard about it, or else being overly-formal to the point of sarcasm.

“Cool. I’ll… see you around, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” At a loss for what else she ought to do, Mary dropped into a curtsey. This time, since she wasn’t holding anything with her left hand, Neville caught it and bowed over it, brushing a kiss across her knuckles.

“Until we meet anon, fair maiden,” he said, with a courtly sincerely that he couldn’t possibly have meant.

“Heir Longbottom,” she smirked.

“Heir Potter.”

He did the honors of tossing the floo powder into the flames for her, and with a shout of “Quibbler Associate’s Auxiliary Office,” she was whisked away.

#### Granger Home, East Farleigh, Kent

Lilian arrived at the Grangers’ a bit later than Mary and Hermione had gone to her place – around five in the evening. After their awkward fight over Yule, none of them were eager to spend too much time together too soon, and they had tacitly decided that it was for the best if Lilian didn’t come over hours before dinner just to hang out, with nothing in particular planned.

Mary felt ridiculously vindicated seeing that Lilian, who had been using the floo since she was old enough to walk, _also_ tripped out of the Grangers’ elevated grate.

The Grangers’ house was much smaller than the Moon’s property, and there were no puppies to distract them, so in no time at all, Hermione and Mary had given Lilian a tour, and all three of them were sitting on the girls’ beds (pushed together, for the moment, to form a king-sized monstrosity). There had been some uncomfortable moments, especially as Mary showed Lilian the newly-dubbed ‘Entertainment Room’ and Hermione had to visibly restrain herself from saying anything, lest they stray too close to the argument again, but they ignored it, and had nearly fallen back into their usual pattern of casual familiarity.

They exchanged gifts (Hermione had gotten Lilian a sketch-diary to go with her new fountain pen; Lilian had brought the others a pair of Spanish fans that she must have been saving since her summer trip. Mary was thrilled: the green and grey silk would go perfectly with the fancy dress-robes she had gotten for her birthday, if and when she ever had occasion to wear them), and Mary had shared out the packet of peppermint-flavored sugar quills Neville had given her. This, of course, raised the topic of how her morning visit had gone: Lilian and Hermione proceeded to grill her mercilessly.

“Was Madam Longbottom awful? I heard she’s awful.”

“Yeah, even mum called her ‘formidable’ – that’s what she calls Grandmère, and Grandmère’s awful.”

“What did you think of St. Mungo’s?”

“Did you get to talk to Alice, like you wanted?”

“What’s Neville like outside of school?”

“Did you meet the infamous Uncle Algie? He sounds even worse than Madam Longbottom!”

Mary sniggered at their rapid-fire interest. “Um… yes, Madam Longbottom’s awful, and yeah, ‘Uncle Algie’ was really rude. Like, at least Madam Longbottom has the excuse of being _old_ , right? I’ve been to St. Mungo’s before, Lils, and yes, Maia, I did get to see Alice, but, um… It didn’t go very well. She kind of freaked out because, um… I guess I look like Bellatrix Lestrange. Like, a lot.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Hermione said, “given the degree of intermarriage between the Noble Families.”

Lilian was just cocking her head to the side, staring.

“All right, there, Lils?” Mary asked, vaguely amused.

“Yeah, no, it’s just. Wow. I never even thought about it, but _yeah_ , you _do_ look like her.”

“What’s she look like?” Hermione asked. “I’ve never seen a picture. Well, other than her mug-shot, and Lizzie doesn’t look like _that_ at all.”

Lilian sniggered. “Um, pretty much exactly like Liz? When she was younger, at least. But her eyes are darker. Almost black. I’ll see if I can find a photo for you. Mum has tons of old Rosier family albums that she never looks at.” Then she smirked broadly. “Good news, twiggy – you’re going to grow up to be a real looker!”

Mary punched her in the arm as hard as she could, which only made the taller, stronger girl laugh. She couldn’t help but feel a bit pleased with that assessment, though. “Madam Longbottom showed me a photo from the 1964 Festa Morgana,” she admitted. “Bellatrix and Blaise’s mum were dancing together. She did clean up nice.”

“Wait – Bellatrix Black and Isabella Zabini – that was like, a _thing_?” Lilian asked, grinning. “I wonder if Blaise knows.”

“I vaguely recall him mentioning they were friends,” Mary shrugged.

“I think Lilian is implying that they were _more_ than friends, Lizzie,” Hermione said, clearly fighting a smile of her own.

“Um, yeah. Girls don’t dance with girls at that sort of thing. It’s just _not done_.”

“I thought the wizarding world was open to gay and lesbian relationships,” the Ravenclaw objected, confused. “No one seems to care about Sean and Carter, or Aerin and Lara.”

Mary felt like a complete idiot for not having realized that Aerin and Lara were actually dating. Well over two years in the magical world had inured her to the strangeness of seeing two girls or two boys in a relationship, but she was clearly still a bit slow on recognizing when “best friends” became “more than friends.”

“Yeah, or like, half of Ravenclaw. And I’m pretty sure every single Hufflepuff plays for both teams. I think it’s a rule. But the whole _point_ of going to those big society balls is to find a husband, you know, for the purposes of marriage and baby-making. Carrying on the family name, and all that jazz,” Lilian explained.

“Even if you’re gay?” Mary was starting to hear the note of ire that preceded a full-on crusade for equal rights in Hermione’s tone.

The blonde shrugged. “Before you get all up in arms, Jeanie, bear in mind, this really only applies to the Old Houses, the ones that care about continuing the House line with an actual blood heir, and even then, unless you’re the _only possible heir_ , most of them will let you opt out of the succession, or you’d just appoint a sibling’s kid as your heir. Some people, like Grandmother Rosier think of it more like… a job, I guess. She actually told Sean last time we saw here that you don’t have to enjoy it to do your duty. There’s potions and stuff to help if you’re _really_ not attracted. But even then, it’s not like fidelity is _expected_ in an arranged marriage, once the heir is out of the way. It’s not really _that_ big deal, but dancing with girls at the Festa would be like… seriously frowned at by all the old matchmakers. It would hurt their chances of making a good match. The Old Families care about things like that.”

Mary just nodded along. In a way, it had made sense when she first found out that no one in Magical Britain cared about two boys snogging in the corridors, because in Little Whinging, gays were in the same category of weird and freakish as anything to do with magic. To Mary’s eleven-year-old self, it had only made sense that wizards would see such relationships as normal. Catherine had eventually explained that the reality was a bit more complicated, since almost all families strongly valued the idea of having children, but the past two years had done little to disabuse her of that initial impression.

Hermione huffed. “ _Fine_.”

“If it makes a difference, Madam Longbottom said they were only fourteen, and they weren’t even supposed to be there,” Mary volunteered.

Lilian shrugged. “It still gives a pretty strong impression. Like if you were to go next year and spend all your time with Daphne, I guarantee Rita Skeeter would write something speculating about it, even though you’re not old enough to really be looking for a match.” Then she changed the subject back to its previous course. “Anyway, it was just interesting because most of the rumors were that she was with the Dark Lord, like some kind of crazy, evil power-couple, even after she got married – definitely not that she was into witches.”

She smirked and Hermione rolled her eyes, asking “How do you even _know_ that?” but Mary shivered. “He was in the picture, too.”

“Who?” Lilian asked, answering Hermione’s question with only a teasing, I-know-secrets-and-I’m-not-telling grin.

“The Dark Lord?”

“Yeah. He looked about twenty-five, and I’m pretty sure he should’ve been older by then, but it was definitely him. I told Neville who he was.”

“Really? Why?” the brunette demanded.

“It just kind of slipped out. I wasn’t expecting to see him there!”

“What did Neville say?” Lilian leaned forward intensely.

“He wanted to know how I knew.”

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” Hermione again, her tone slightly chiding.

“No, he guessed that it was something with the Chamber of Secrets, and I pretty much confirmed that, but I didn’t give him any of the details.”

The others considered this for a long moment, then Lilian asked, “Did he say what he’d do with the information?”

Mary grinned. “He was talking about spreading it around that the Dark Lord’s real name is Tom Riddle, for all the good it will do. I still don’t know why Dumbledore was ever keeping it a secret in the first place. I told him to look into the connection between the two of them, too, and see if he could figure out what that reason was.”

Hermione nodded decisively. “Good. I’ll look into it as well. Maybe see if I can track down any other aliases he used to use, or the like. Do you think you could get me a copy of that photo? His picture’s blacked out in his yearbook in the library, and there aren’t any in the reports on his Award for Services to the School.”

“Sounds like someone went to pretty extreme lengths to separate his name and his face,” Lilian noted.

“That’s kind of what I was thinking,” Mary agreed. “I mean, I don’t know what it accomplishes, but if he cared enough to hide it, I don’t see why I shouldn’t let Neville reveal it. He is supposed to be ‘the Chosen One’ after all,” she smirked. “Maybe that’s his role in this, that key thing that leads to the Dark Lord’s downfall.”

Silence settled in as they contemplated this latest development, the stupidity of prophecy, and the role Neville would be forced to play if and when the Dark Lord managed to make a comeback.

After a time, Lilian asked again, “So what _was_ Neville like, outside of school?”

Mary shrugged. “He’s alright. A bit odd, really. It’s like he knows how he should act, and he’s actually smart and witty, but only if he’s too irritated to be nervous or if he’s standing on, like… false ceremony. Like he’s being so formal it’s _obviously_ sarcastic, you know?” Lilian nodded. “I invited him to hang out with us on Saturdays in the library,” she added.

“I was planning on spending Saturdays _dueling_ ,” the other Slytherin nearly whined.

“You still have to do your homework _sometime_ ,” Hermione pointed out.

Mary shrugged. “If it turns out we end up dueling on Saturdays, I’m sure he’d be willing to hang out there instead. He told me I should get a dueling knife so I could join in the bladed matches.”

Lilian cocked her head to the side again. “Yeah, I can see it. I’ve never used one myself, but I saw a demonstration a few years back at Unparalleled. They have tournaments in the summer. It was wicked awesome. But you learned left-handed casting when you broke your arm, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You should give dual casting a shot. It’s harder to concentrate on two spells at once, but if you can get the knack down, it’d be way cooler.”

“Maybe,” Mary said hesitantly. She kind of liked the idea of a knife more the more she thought about it, but the idea of being able to cast shields and attack _at the same time_ was also very attractive. “Are you going to start coming with us, Maia?” Hermione hadn’t been attending the regularly scheduled dueling club meetings so far, but Mary still thought that magical fighting was an important skill that she should learn.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” the older girl admitted. “It’s not that I don’t want to learn how to defend myself, it’s just, well… if we get into a real fight, how likely is it that it will follow proper dueling rules?”

Mary actually thought it was quite likely that she would have to participate in a duel or two at some point in her life, probably even before the end of the year, if the thing with Dave sparked off again, but before she could say so, Lilian snorted. “Hermione Granger isn’t participating in Dueling Club because she doesn’t want to follow the rules?”

“Well, it’s not like I have any status to challenge, and I’m certainly not planning on _starting_ a fight, so yes – that _and_ by the time we got the MSA meetings moved, you all had several weeks’ advantage on me. I didn’t want to show up just to _lose_ in front of everyone.”

“So you’ll come to the extra practices, and figure it out with us there?” Mary asked hopefully.

Hermione hesitated, but then nodded.

“Brilliant!” Mary exclaimed. “This is going to be so much fun – you’ll see!”

Lilian rubbed her hands together and cackled maniacally. Hermione’s protests that it wasn’t _that_ big a deal, and it wasn’t like she was ever really _against_ joining the club, were completely ignored, and then interrupted by the adults calling them to dinner.

Like opening presents as part of the family, actually joining them to eat a holiday meal she had helped prepare (in the hours between her return from the Longbottoms’ and Lilian’s arrival), was a novel event for Mary. They used Emma’s nice china, and Dan said a prayer in French before they tucked in. The food was delicious – and there was far more than the five of them could possibly have eaten if their lives depended on it. Mary could already see leftover ham sandwiches in her future until she returned to Hogwarts. Lilian and Hermione carried the conversation with an animated discussion of the differences between their families’ respective Christmas celebrations.

The Grangers (and Mary), who couldn’t really be considered religious, outside of the holiday season, had attended a Midnight Mass the night before, at a spectacularly decorated little cathedral in Maidstone. It had been all in Latin (which was brilliant, because Mary realized halfway through that she had picked up just enough of the language over the past couple of years to follow the basic idea of it), and there was a lot of singing.

Mary had never been to church before, or at least not that she could remember. She knew Dudley had been baptized, but the Dursleys were more the sort of people who tended to their lawns and washed their cars of a Sunday than the sort who made a point of being seen at the local church. She chimed in with a description of the music, which had been amazing. She wasn’t sure she had ever heard a chorus perform before outside of her primary school – and certainly never like _that_.

Lilian was in the middle of describing the symbolism of the ash faggot when they reached desert, and Mary brought out _their_ version of a Yule Log. She had used Dan’s mother’s family’s recipe, and the cake, decorated with chocolate buttercream icing and powdered sugar, had turned out better than Aunt Petunia’s ever did. She was _immensely_ pleased with herself.

After dinner, they bundled up and took a short walk around the neighborhood to see the lights and other decorations. They ran into a group of carolers, which they stood and listened to for a couple of songs. Lilian and Mary joined in with them, though Hermione, still tone-deaf as a post, most emphatically did not, despite her parents’ teasing. When they got too cold standing still and moved on, girls told the adults (discretely) about the Singing Orbs from the train, and the prank where Ginny had been forced to communicate only in carols all day. They appeared to be torn between amusement and horror, until Dan said, “You know, I’ve been wondering about magical music. Do wizards have anything like a Walkman?” and the conversation meandered away in another direction.

Eventually they made their way back to the Grangers’. Their house itself was only minimally decorated, with a few strings of lights around the doors and outlining the eaves, but the Christmas tree was visible through the front window, and the whole thing gave off a sort of homey, holiday glow.

The upset at St. Mungo’s and dealing with the Longbottoms aside, it was easily the _best_ Christmas Mary had ever had. Hogwarts was certainly beautiful, with its over-the-top recognition of the day, but it was nothing compared to actually being included in a familial celebration for the first time in her life.

#### Arkham, Massachusetts, United States

##### Harrison Evans (Tom Riddle)

Tom (or Harrison Evans, as he was known these days) had never liked Christmas.

In the orphanage, there had never been much to celebrate, and after several years at Hogwarts he had learned that the proper, _magical_ holiday was _Yule_. He found ‘holiday cheer’ to be both baffling and slightly uncomfortable (Why should everyone spend the better part of a month pretending (poorly) that they weren’t every bit as miserable as they were for the rest of the year?), and despite the previous night’s diversions, he was still rather put-out over his enforced idleness, for so arbitrary a reason as the birth of a single person roughly two millennia prior.

He had spent a not-insubstantial part of the day dealing with the consequences of his previous evening’s encounter – he had returned home rather late, after several hours erasing his presence from the scene of the crime, dealing with the body, and destroying the murder weapon, and therefore had slept correspondingly long into the morning. He was satisfied that Security would not be able to connect him personally with the disappearance of that particular vampire (despite his complete lack of an alibi), if they took an interest in the case at all. Their job was more along the lines of keeping the peace and the Statute of Secrecy than actually solving mysteries or tracking down murderers. As long as he hadn’t inadvertently managed to strike up some sort of blood feud, they probably wouldn’t care very much about his victim’s disappearance.

If they did, there really wasn’t much more he could do about it, anyway. It would only look suspicious to do anything out of character at this point. He had put the final death of Margolotta Lyntz out of his mind a few minutes after he had woken up, and filled his day as best he could.

He had cooked lunch. He had tidied his apartment. He had tried to read a pointless novel which he did not recall acquiring, sorted the post, and outlined a list of projects to work on once he had access to the Library again.

He went up to the Library and examined the seals which had been placed over its doors, and was summarily electrocuted by an interesting (very painful) variation on a Greek lightning hex concealed within a false weak-spot. Security had revived him and had a hearty laugh at his expense before informing him that he should consider that his only warning. He (wisely, in his own opinion) had decided to forego another attempt to even examine the veritable Gordian knot of locking enchantments, wards, and hexes, and returned to his apartment to lick his wounds.

He had spent an hour or so trying to slip into the shadow-plane, but only managed to magically exhaust himself, and he couldn’t figure out what he was doing wrong. He had taken a nap, and made a very late dinner, after which he found himself at loose ends again, damn-near climbing the walls for lack of any stimulating activity. (He found that it was even more difficult to do nothing now that he was free of the diary than it had been before he had trapped himself there, despite what amounted to years of practice.) He lasted less than half an hour before he decided he absolutely must get out of the apartment.

Thus he found himself wandering the empty streets of Arkham again, for a second night running.

Arkham was, by the standards of someone who had grown up in London, a very small city, with only a hundred thousand residents. Nearly a quarter of them were associated with the University, which, to his immense surprise, was apparently one of the most exclusive muggle universities of Liberal Arts and Philosophy in the United States as well as the most notorious center for the study of the Dark Arts on three continents.

By the standards of someone accustomed to Magical Britain, its concentration of magical inhabitants – over two-thousand wizards, witches, and sapient creatures, most of them ex-patriots or exiles from their birth-countries – was absurdly high. The vast majority of them, including Tom, were associated in one way or another with the College of the Arts (or as it was known to the mundanes, the College of Art and Design), though the lands and territory of the Miskatonic Valley Magical Cooperative (an “upstanding” member of the League of Independent American Magical Settlements) included not only the campus, but the entirety of Arkham.

The mundane inhabitants of the Valley, he had quickly discovered, had a rather unusual, credulous-but-wary attitude toward the wizards’… less than perfect concealment of the existence of magic. They all knew there was _something strange_ and possibly dangerous about the University, but they did their part (for what reason he could not fathom) to stop what should be the occasional (read: depressingly regular) major breach of the Statute of Secrecy from escaping the boundaries of the town and looked the other way when, for example, a high-energy trans-dimensional portal _rotated_ unexpectedly, displacing the entire city into a parallel universe for three days, or an elephant-erumpet hybrid escaped its containment chamber and rampaged across campus, (temporarily) killing five undergraduates and a Visiting Scholar, and resulting in the city boundary wards being locked down, cutting off all outside communication for six hours.

Dealing with the mysterious ‘events’ and communications blackouts, and the higher-than-average “natural” mortality rate that plagued the small city seemed to be accepted as a normal part of the cost of living in Arkham, and despite his best efforts, he had not managed to discover any direct evidence of mass mental tampering in play.

He had been looking for it, too, after he had been drafted to help cover up the escape of the Elerumpet.

The major part of the cover-up had involved a pair of post-docs, conscripted from Thanatology by Campus Security to resurrect the dead undergraduates and arrange for them to ‘die’ off-campus in a series of tragic ‘accidents’ over the course of nearly a week. He himself had been ordered to help alter the memories of witnesses to both the actual and false deaths.

He had, of course, complied: The Director of Security, a somewhat less-than-human female with the disturbing ability to selectively nullify any magic around her, seemingly with no effort at all, could probably knock him arse over teakettle in five seconds flat, if she didn’t just destroy him outright. She was the most terrifying creature he had ever met – and quite possibly the most powerful as well: she did, after all, keep two-thousand mad, dark wizards from destroying the town and its mundane inhabitants with a force of only fifty or so auror-quality officers at her command (not to mention dealing with mundane security matters as well). _Naturally_ he had been only too willing to fulfill her ‘request’ to assist with the memory alterations – regardless of the fact that he still had no idea how Security had discovered that he was a natural legilimens.

(It was slightly thrilling and equally irritating, having to watch his step at all times, lest he piss off someone who could crush him like a bug. It reminded him a bit of his first days at Hogwarts, but unlike Dumbledore, most of the Miskatonic Research Fellows were more than willing to leave him alone if he did the same, and the remainder seemed to actively approve of him, so he found he didn’t mind their existence as much as he otherwise might have done.)

What he hadn’t realized until he was fiddling about with the memories of random citizens (rather than simply absorbing their surface thoughts in passing) was that no one had done anything to disguise the Alternate Universe Incident which had occurred only days after his arrival at Miskatonic.

The entire town was aware of it, and for the most part… didn’t seem to care.

He had realized, thinking back on it, that during the incident, there had been inexplicably little panic, and now that it was over, the locals seemed to find it all vaguely intriguing, but not worth thinking on too much – a new story to tell their grandchildren, one day, perhaps, but nothing to worry about. Even the out-of-town undergraduates seemed to conform to the ubiquitous attitude of acceptance, albeit with varying degrees of reluctance. The few he had found to be genuinely disturbed by the whole affair hesitated to say anything to anyone after their friends – who had actually experienced the incident – dismissed their concerns as irrational: they clearly expected that they would be thought mad by Outsiders.

(Even the most uncomfortable and reluctant of Arkham residents seemed to begin to think of non-residents as ‘Outsiders’ who weren’t to be entirely trusted after only a few weeks in the town. Presumably this disinclination to share their experiences at the University remained if and when they left, for he could not imagine that the school would not have come under _some_ kind of investigation by LIAMS or the American Board of Magical Governance by now if it didn’t.)

It was _weird_.

He suspected that there was something in the water, or perhaps a very subtle curse woven into the town wards or its lands, because muggles – mundanes – simply _weren’t okay with things like that_.

Not that he minded.

Between the unusually tolerant mundanes and his natural inclination toward freeform magic, he hardly needed to take care to disguise his magical status at all, which was… nice.

As was being surrounded by Dark Wizards with intellectual curiosity and ambitions to equal his own at all times.

He doubted that he would stay forever, but for the moment it was… comfortable.

It had taken almost no time at all for Harrison to gain a meeting with the Dean of the College of the Arts and the status of a Visiting Scholar, and even less to establish himself in the Department of Applied Metaphysics. He supported himself by compelling the occasional muggle ( _not_ from Arkham – it was against the few laws of the MVMC to prey too openly on the locals) to give him all of their savings, and spent most of his time in the Library or conducting experiments in the extensive, underground AM labs. He had even managed to wrangle a slot in the lecture halls, and had acquired a determined following of undergraduates who regularly attended his talks on freeform magic and enchanting. (Most of his fellow AM Researchers were neither interested in nor very good at teaching.)

Even the Department of Applied Metaphysics, however, took a day off, on occasion, and Christmas was apparently one of them.

Stupid muggle holiday.

The muggles didn’t even celebrate it religiously anymore – they hadn’t, really, even back in the 1940s, and the understanding that it was now more about renewing the bonds of family and a sort of manufactured nostalgia for better times that had never really existed (rather than an actual holy observance) had only grown more prevalent since his childhood.

He rather thought he disapproved.

Even now, when he _had_ a family member to claim as such, he didn’t quite understand why he would want to. Well, he understood why _he_ wanted to – the little Potter girl – ‘his’ granddaughter – she had a great deal of personal fame, wealth, and social status, and therefore _potential_ with which he should automatically be entitled to align himself due to their familial connection. She had been clever enough and admirably flexible in her moral outlook, which had made her tolerable company, as well.

In short, she could be _useful_ , if she could be brought around to supporting him as the _true_ Heir of Slytherin… not to mention he had bound the two of them together through their shared blood, anchoring himself to the living world through her in lieu of another horcrux.

(She was, in a very tangible way, _his_ , even if she hadn’t followed his advice to get her wards tuned, which had resulted in her Yule gift (an introductory book on the mind arts) being returned. He hadn’t decided yet whether to send it to her at Hogwarts. He wasn’t certain she deserved it, as she hadn’t followed his instructions in the months since Mabon.)

What he didn’t understand was why _most_ people, whose families were largely useless, would bother with them. Plus, sometime in the past fifty years, the mundane world seemed to have replaced even their magicless, pro-forma acknowledgment of the ‘miracle’ that was the supposed incarnation of their god in human form with over-indulgence in revolting, mass-produced consumerism. On the one hand, he found this far more relatable than the familial bond – he had been raised as an orphan during the Great Depression, and therefore understood keenly the attraction of money and possessions – but on the other, he could think of no more profoundly muggle attitude than replacing mysticism with commercialism. He was fairly sure that he would have found it distasteful on principle, even if it didn’t inconvenience him personally.

Which it did.

He could be designing spells to arrest the formation process of ghosts for the Petrification Ghost Replication Experiment, or seeking out information on the intangible aspects of humans in pursuit of an explanation of how, precisely, his alter-ego had managed to _split his life-spark_ , or even working through the arithmancy that defined his new body, just to verify that it was as stable as he had hoped when he had jumped into his off-the-cuff plan to create it (which fact he was beginning to doubt, for various reasons).

Instead of working on any of the very important projects on his list, however, he was trudging through the snow-covered streets of Arkham, musing on the strangeness of the place and complaining to himself about the inconvenience that was being forced to recognize this thrice-cursed holiday.

It was one of the strangest things yet about this town that it could be dressed up with twinkle lights despite the darkness lurking at its heart; its citizens’ lives a perfect parody of Christmas joy through their windows, when he _knew_ that they experienced as much tragedy and horror as any other town in the world, if not more. Surely it was another aspect of the city’s weirdness that it could seem so completely peaceful on this night alone, when destruction and chaos lurked, normally, around every corner. Had he not been stalked by a vampire only the night before?

It was, he thought with a sudden stroke of inspiration, rather as though the entire town had agreed to a truce – a cease-fire of sorts – for a single night: The University shut down (despite all reasonable expectations) and for a single twenty-four hour span, the town was the (rather uncanny) picture of mundane normality. Doubtless it was part of the reason the townspeople were so accommodating of the University the rest of the year.

Yes, he decided. That made sense. Well… a _sort_ of sense: he wouldn’t be surprised if it was necessitated by whatever spell protected the city, that they have one day of peace each year, when there was nothing for the average Arkham citizen to conceal from the outside world, or something of that ilk. They wouldn’t tell newcomers, lest they find some way to damage the protection once they knew about it – this must be a major clue as to its function. It would explain _everything_ , or at least everything about the lack of information he had been given.

He found that he felt better about the mandatory time off, having finally managed to explain its purpose to his own satisfaction. He walked on feeling substantially more settled as he convinced himself that the University and the city would return to business as usual come morning, and made a mental note to investigate whether his suppositions might, in fact, be correct, and not just idle self-reassurance.

Snow had begun to fall, glazing the bare branches of the trees and the light-bedecked houses like something out of a postcard. Somewhere in the distance, a clock tolled midnight.

It was not, Tom decided, the worst first Christmas Harrison Evans could have had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more on Tom and what's going on with him, check out 'The Night Before Christmas' - a one-shot mini-prequel to his POV scene in this chapter.


	24. And A Happy New Year

###  Monday, 27 December 1993

#### Granger Home, East Farleigh, Kent

Boxing Day passed sleepily in the Granger household. Mary spent most of it writing over two-dozen thank-you notes (and a proper letter to Catherine) and organizing them by mailing priority and general location. She figured that if Eirene could deliver three or four a night, they would all arrive before it became unspeakably rude of her _not_ to have sent one. The rest of it was spent revisiting the debate of whether to simply replace her Nimbus 2001, or whether to try out the newer brooms on the market, with the added twist of whether she ought to seriously consider purchasing a dueling knife.

After nearly two hours of this, Hermione had irritably pointed out that her parents’ work holiday was scheduled to come to an end the following day. The number of families who wanted their dental work done during their own week off from work or school, between Christmas and New Year’s, was surprisingly high. If it turned out that there was no way for Mary to _get_ to London in the first place, there was no way she could try out new brooms _or_ even look at how much dueling knives cost.

It wasn’t until she realized that she really might have to just owl-order a new Nimbus that Mary realized how much she actually wanted to try the others (especially if Draco had been right, and QQS was letting people test-fly their display Firebolt). By the time she woke up on Monday, she was trying to think of ways that she might make her way up to Diagon for a day. Perhaps she and Hermione could take a train up disguised as muggles? Or she could ask Professor McGonagall whether Trainee Auror Tonks was available to escort them, and they could just floo. She briefly considered _sneaking_ up via floo while the Grangers were at work, but given her luck, she would probably be kidnapped by Sirius Black when she went to check out that armory Neville had mentioned.

Asking the Professor about Tonks was probably the best bet, she decided, and resolved to do so as soon as would be reasonably polite.

She never had the chance.

She suspected that the adults had arranged Professor McGonagall’s visit specifically so that the girls couldn’t get into _too_ much trouble on their first unsupervised day of vacation. If they had, it worked better than they could possibly have expected: Mary had decided that the Grangers’ usual housekeeping standards weren’t really up to the one Aunt Petunia had trained her to maintain, nor the image she wanted to project for her first attempt at hostessing, so she had spent most of Monday morning and the early part of the afternoon bringing the rooms the Professor was likely to see up to snuff and baking tea-cakes, crumpets, and shortbread in preparation for her arrival. Hermione had raised an eyebrow at both the voluntary cleaning and Mary’s explanation of what she was doing, grabbed a leftover slice of the Yule Log for breakfast, and headed straight back to her bed and a novel.

Housework, Mary decided, was much easier when everyone stayed out of your way, rather than deliberately tracking in mud, licking or putting handprints on the windows and mirrors, and strewing their toys about five minutes after she had finished putting them away. Everything was clean, including Mary, her robes pressed, her hair dried and pinned up (neatly, for once), tea-trays and nibbles arranged _well_ before the appointed time. She was setting the table when Hermione reappeared.

She smirked. “You look like a 1950s housewife.”

It was true. Mary was wearing a crimson day-robe with bloomers and an under-skirt instead of trousers, and her low-heeled Mary Janes instead of her usual dragonhide boots. She had also spent the day preparing for this visit like a 1950s housewife, cooking and cleaning with a house-proud eye to appearances, far beyond the bare necessities of tidiness. It was an attitude Aunt Petunia had attempted to foster in her at an early age, and the Urquharts’ society lessons reinforced (albeit at a more upper-class level – less chores, more delegating to the House Elves). She found she didn’t mind the work nearly so much when it was her own pride as a hostess on the line. She wanted to prove that she was capable of putting the lessons Catherine had drummed into her into practice on her own ground. It was different than being a guest, which was more or less how every other tea she had attended had gone, from those at the Urquharts’ to Christmas tea in Aunt Minnie’s quarters, to Daphne’s parties at school. Plus it wasn’t as though she had really had anything else to do today.

She just shrugged. “Sometimes I like to dress up.”

“Really?” Hermione raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen you before.” Her tone was almost accusatory.

“I was wearing pretty much this exact same thing when I went over to Neville’s, literally two days ago, Mary pointed out.

“I thought you were dressing up for Christmas.”

The younger girl shook her head. “I wear this kind of thing all the time at the Urquharts’. Less so before my birthday, but even then I still had to dress up for tea. Anyway, I’m not a little kid anymore. You know how our uniforms changed this year? They’re really strict about what young adults wear, even more outside of school.”

Hermione looked down at her own faded denims and the jumper Mary knew was her favorite. It had faded over years of washing, and the neck was all stretched out of shape. “I should probably change, shouldn’t I?”

Mary laughed. “I kind of doubt the Professor’s going to hold you to the same standards she would me, or any of the other girls from Noble Houses. I _have_ to learn to fit in with them. You don’t.”

The brunette gave a put-upon sigh. “There’s a difference between being held to that standard and looking like an unkempt frumpet in comparison. I’ll be back.” She turned on her heel and stalked away, muttering about outdated sensibilities.

By the time she returned, wearing a green Christmas dress and black tights, with her hair plaited more or less into submission, Mary was welcoming the Professor into the house. She did her best to imitate Mary’s greeting. Mary hid a smile, and made a mental note to teach Hermione the _proper_ curtsey she ought to use, because it definitely wasn’t the same for a muggleborn and an heir of a Noble House (and she suspected that most society matrons would find it more offensive if said muggleborn tried and failed to fit in than if she hadn’t tried at all). The three of them made small-talk for a while, and Mary and the Professor exchanged gifts. Mary took her cue from the Professor in setting them aside to open later, understanding that it would be rude to do so in front of Hermione, when she hadn’t received anything.

Right around the time the settled down at the table (with approving nods at Mary’s efforts, and much appreciative eyeing of the shortbread on the Professor’s part), when Mary was just about to bring up Neville’s suggestion that she look into a dueling knife, her need of a new broom, and the fact that she was considering if and how it might be possible to get to London before the end of the holiday, Professor McGonagall dropped a bomb-shell.

“You might be interested in a most fascinating piece of correspondence I received only this morning, Miss Mary,” she said with a small, cat-like smile, her eyes glinting with suppressed glee.

“Whyever so?” Mary asked. Hermione eyed her quietly. She had kept her mouth shut for the most part after the introductions, which was so far out of character for her that Mary suspected she must feel very out of place in the formal atmosphere. The Slytherin had to admit, it was kind of nice to see how far she had come in the past two years, that she could hold this conversation, playing hostess as she was, and maintain that atmosphere with only a little effort.

“Well, you see, Mary, dear, it has come to my attention through a contact at the Ministry that the Firebolt Broom Manufacturing Company attempted to make a delivery to you, scheduled to arrive on Christmas Eve. Due to some confusion about your current location, the package was returned to the sender, and it was only today that they contacted me as your guardian to determine whether I was authorized to take delivery on your behalf.”

Mary blinked twice. Her jaw fell open. She closed it and blinked again, every thought of propriety scattered to the wind in an instant. “Are you telling me someone tried to send me a _Firebolt_ for Christmas?!”

Professor McGonagall laughed aloud. “Indeed, lass. And before you ask, no, I don’t know who it was – the representative I talked to this morning says that the order was put in anonymously nearly two months ago, through the goblins.”

“I can’t believe it! This is too good to be true! _Please_ tell me you took delivery!” Hermione was laughing at her now as well, but Mary didn’t care.

“It’ll be arriving at the Castle tomorrow morning by direct owl-post,” the Professor grinned. “I’ll have it placed in your room. I daresay young Mr. Flint will have you out putting it through its paces the day you return.”

Mary groaned. “That’s nearly _two weeks_! I can’t wait that long!”

Hermione sniggered. “It’s just a _broom_ , Lizzie.”

“We have been _through_ this, Maia! It’s not _just_ a _broom_! It’s the _best_ broom! Bar none. I wasn’t even _considering_ it as a replacement – I’ve _got_ to tell Malfoy. He’s going to be _so_ jealous!”

This brought forth another wave of laughter from the other witches. The stiff air of formality well and truly broken, the three of them settled into a comfortable chat about their holidays thus far, and their plans for the remainder of the break. The girls had no plans whatsoever, aside from lazing and enjoying their break from classes, but Professor McGonagall was heading to her family home for a brief visit with her brother and his children before term resumed, and would be spending some time with the Urquharts as well. She had, in fact, already spent Yule with them, and had volunteered to pass along a message to Mary, inviting her to stay the night with them on January second, and then attend the first Wizengamot session of 1994 with Lord Urquhart the following day.

Hermione had asked if she would be able to attend as well, simply to get a better feel for how the government of Magical Britain worked, and had sulked for nearly half an hour when Professor McGonagall informed her that members of the public were required to submit an application to attend any given session, and that she would not be allowed to apply on her own behalf until she was of age. The only reason Mary was invited was that she would be expected to take up the Potter seat when she came of age, and needed to learn how things worked before then. Mary promised to relate everything she observed during the session in the smallest detail, but even that only seemed to frustrate the older girl – apparently having to rely on second-hand information regarding the operation of the government ran counter to her Ravenclaw principles.

The Slytherin suspected that her friend was already plotting to find some other way to weasel her way into the government chambers over the summer, because she perked up considerably when the Professor mentioned that there was a section for the press, and that Lords occasionally brought along legal aides or secretaries to advise them on precedent when casting votes, or keep track of events that would not be captured in the official minutes. Mary wouldn’t be at _all_ surprised if it turned out that Hermione just so happened to want to get a summer job as a legal intern or take over her father’s role as a ‘Special Correspondent’ for the Quibbler to get a Press Pass.

After that, the conversation wound down quickly. Mary did get the Trainee Auror’s contact information from the Professor, in the interests of potentially taking a trip up to Diagon to go shopping for a day, though she had to admit, that trip was less of a priority now that she already had a _Firebolt_ waiting for her back at the Castle. Professor McGonagall took her leave, and the girls spent the remainder of the afternoon eating leftover crumpets, watching Aladdin on VHS, and discussing whether a flying carpet would theoretically be easier to enchant than a broom.

###  Friday, 31 December 1993

#### Granger Home, East Farleigh, Kent

Mary slept in on the morning of New Year’s Eve, in deference to the fact that she and Hermione were planning on staying up at least until midnight that evening. She woke and drifted off again several times as she heard the elder Grangers moving about, but stubbornly rolled over and refused to get out of bed until the older girl did. By the time they made it downstairs, it was half past ten, and the house was otherwise deserted. Dan had a few patients to see before they closed the practice for the weekend, but Emma had just said something the night before about not having to go in, so Mary had expected her to be around somewhere. Instead, there was a note on the counter by the sink.

“What’s in Wiltshire?” she asked Hermione, as the older girl padded into the kitchen. Mary was already mixing pancake batter, eager to do _something_ after lying in for so long.

“Um… Salisbury? Stonehenge? Chalk? Sheep?” The answer was strangely muffled as her friend hunted through the refrigerator.

“Why would your mum go there?”

“Has she?”

“Gone to Wiltshire to lunch, should be back before dinner,” Mary read.

The older girl yawned. “Maybe that’s where the Malfoys live. She’s been dropping hints for ages that she’s got someone on the hook to help out with IMP that we’d never expect, and I’m pretty sure it’s Narcissa Malfoy. Are we really out of milk?”

“I already got it out,” the cook answered absentmindedly, considering this information.

IMP, the Informed Muggle Parents’ network, had started out as an informal networking sort of thing between the parents the Grangers had met at the Muggleborn shopping trip in August. Reading between the lines of what Emma had written over the course of the term, and what she had said over the past two weeks, the group was still little more than a monthly newsletter filled with summaries of major headline news (for those who didn’t get the Prophet), especially related to Hogwarts or muggle or muggleborn rights; a few articles on the best tactics for dealing with the Ministry; and contact information so that parents could get together and bond over the difficulties of raising magical children, or arrange playdates for their younger kids who were already showing signs of magic. Two of the other mothers, Mrs. Fletcher and Mrs. Taylor, had taken on the role of writing and editing it.

The group’s eventual goals were twofold: to have some input on the decisions of Hogwarts’ Board of Governors, possibly in the form of something like a PTA, and to find a way to reform the muggleborn integration process, so that future muggle parents would have resources and explanations for all the weird things that happened around their children the _first_ time accidental magic happened, rather than being repeatedly obliviated or slowly going mad wondering what the hell was going on. A few of the witches who were in on the letter-writing and petition campaign were supporting them, but they were having difficulties gaining any real traction outside of that group, because the number of wizards who took muggles seriously was incredibly low.

“Seriously? Narcissa Malfoy? I thought Mrs. Diggory and Mrs. Tonks were working on getting the more-influential _Light_ supporters on their side.”

Hermione’s bushy curls reappeared from the pantry. “What was that?”

Mary didn’t bother repeating herself. “We are talking about the mother of Draco Malfoy, prat extraordinaire? Pureblood bigot? Leading member of the Allied Dark Bloc?”

“I don’t think she is, actually. A bigot, I mean. If you look at her voting record and the transcripts of the speeches she’s made since she took over the Malfoy seat in the Wizengamot, her views, or at least the ones she’ll admit in public, aren’t really that unreasonable for a Dark Traditionalist. What did dad do with the confectioners’ sugar?”

“Lucius Malfoy was definitely a Death Eater, though. I don’t think even Draco believes his Imperius Defense,” Mary pointed out. “And we used the rest of the powdered sugar on the Yule Log.”

The sugar fiend, who had been taking advantage of the presence of normally-forbidden sweets as much as possible since Christmas, pulled a face. “Fine, I guess I’ll make due. Anyway, the fact that the Malfoys managed to weather the end of the war with most of their fortune, influence, and reputation intact should tell you something, shouldn’t it?”

Mary wasn’t getting it. “What? That the entire magical world is corrupt to the core?”

Hermione rolled her eyes with a tisk. “Narcissa has been in charge of the official House Malfoy political stance since she became Lady Malfoy in… 1977. _Pureblood supremacy_ was already a failing position politically even then, when the Dark Lord was still _gaining_ power _outside_ of the Wizengamot. She shifted their official line to be more about maintaining traditional values and the rule of the elite, and generally defensible.”

“Your mum’s still a muggle, though. There’s no room in traditional values and maintaining the Wizengamot nobility or whatever for getting muggles involved in Magical Britain.” Even _if pureblood supremacy_ was politically incorrect, _magical superiority_ was alive and well in Magical Britain. Even Professor McGonagall didn’t really think muggles were as capable as wizards.

The older girl smirked and shook her head, hair flying. “That’s what Mandy said when I ran this by her, but you’re overlooking that Malfoy is absolutely ruthless in her politics. She’s obviously willing to say and do whatever she has to, to maintain her power and influence, even if it means publically renouncing the Dark Lord and her sister and pureblood supremacy. Embracing the demographic shift and working with a muggle group would be minor in comparison. If she spins it right, it will be a bloody _coup_ when it comes out that the _Allied Dark_ are behind IMP.”

“I can’t see the other Dark Houses being okay with it, though. They’re mostly traditionalists.”

“They’re also mostly pragmatic. You know how the Dark are more in favor of Creature Rights?”

“They’re really more anti-regulation,” the Slytherin clarified. Creature rights had been a big topic of conversation in the common room over the last few weeks of the term.

“Whatever. It _plays out_ as the Dark being in favor of greater rights for most sentient creatures, and means that most sentient creatures are on their side, politically speaking. I think, if it really _is_ Lady Malfoy that mum’s been talking to, and like I said, she _has_ been dropping hints, then she’d try to play it like that, taking the moral high ground from the Light by undermining their claim to support muggles and muggleborns. _Plus_ , if the Dark have influence over IMP, they can undermine Dumbledore’s influence over Hogwarts by nudging parents and children toward Dark values before they get to school.

“And then there’s the issue of the long-term political landscape. According to Arrowgate, it’s only a matter of time until one of the Allied Dark Houses caves to expediency and begins courting muggleborns. It’s all related to Democratic Expansionism. Given the voting trends over the past twenty years, it’s probably twelve years at the outside until the Expansionists get the majority they need to create a House of Commons equivalent. Arithmancy Quarterly had an article on it back in September. The Magical British public almost overwhelmingly supports the Light agenda, because the Light is the side that has traditionally supported policies favoring the Ministry, and the Ministry is currently the only way most of us have to affect the government. Unless the Dark starts making major inroads on public opinion in the next five years, the newly expanded Wizengamot is likely to be flooded by new members who will start voting for greater regulation and restrictions on the traditional privileges of the Noble Houses, and they’ll be steamrolled.”

Mary knew most of that, she realized on reflection, but she hadn’t heard it put together in quite that way. Her lessons with Catherine hadn’t quite extended to predicting those sort of interactions yet. “But you really think that Malfoy is going to be the one to make that first move?”

Hermione shrugged. “ _I_ do. The Parliamentarians, that’s the Ravenclaw political analysis club, have a pool going on it, and most of the older students’ money is on Yaxley or Rowle in the next three years. I think they’re underestimating House Malfoy because of Lucius’ history, and the way Draco acts in public. Lord Yaxley and Lord Rowle weren’t actually Death Eaters, even though there were Death Eaters in their families. But like I said, if you look at the transcripts, the way the Malfoys vote is borderline neutral.”

“I never thought I’d say this, but Ravenclaw might be out-politicking Slytherin,” Mary admitted lightly.

The other girl laughed. “Don’t worry, we only _talk_ about politics, and debate the what-ifs. Slytherin’s still got us beat hands-down when it comes to actually _getting involved_ in politicking. Speaking of which, you’ll win me twenty galleons if you start your own political bloc before you leave school.”

“Wait, _what?_ ”

“I got _really_ long odds on House Potter starting its own voting bloc when you finally get to take over your own Seat.”

“ _Seriously_? That’s like, four years away!” Even as she said it, Mary didn’t know whether she thought that was too far out to say what she would be doing, or far too soon to pull together an actual political alliance.

Hermione laughed again. “Apparently they’ve been betting on which camp you’ll fall in with since you got Sorted. I didn’t find out about it until I started having a bit more free time this year.”

Mary gaped at her. The Ravenclaw politics club was betting on _her_ future political decisions. It was… absurd. And also incredibly unnerving. Catherine had been telling her for ages that she was an important public figure, and she knew about Mary Potter Day (equally ridiculous) and the quasi-legendary status she had among the incoming students (both for being the Girl Who Lived and the Heir of Slytherin). But the awkward hero-worshipping stares and the newspaper articles, and even the whole situation with Daphne and her tea parties hadn’t brought the idea home quite like this, that people she’d never spoken to or even _met_ actually cared what kind of decisions she was likely to make four or more _years_ in the future.

She was _just Mary_! She was _thirteen_! She cared about Quidditch and hanging out with her friends and, and _making pancakes_ , for fuck’s sake! Not starting her own gods-cursed political party at the age of seventeen!

But that was (apparently) the sort of thing _other_ people expected her to do. It was a very uncomfortable realization, and she found she didn’t particularly want to think about it at the moment.

Instead, she changed the subject, flipping the last pancake onto the serving plate. “Speaking of free time, what have you been up to all term?”

Despite Hermione’s promise (or at least strong insinuation) that they would be able to catch up over this holiday, they still hadn’t really talked much about anything that had been going on all term. At first, they had been avoiding being alone with each other after their fight at the Moons’, and then Emma and Dan had been around, anyway, making the most of their week off by spending as much time as possible with the girls. Mary knew better than to bring up the question of what Hermione had been doing with all her turned time when her parents were around, as she strongly suspected that Hermione hadn’t told them exactly how much she was using the enchanted device. Then she had spent Monday preparing for the Professor’s visit, and she supposed she had just been avoiding bringing it up since then, mostly because she still felt a little bad about ruining Hermione’s chances as a Junior Unspeakable or whatever the program was called. She _was_ curious, though.

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask about that,” the older girl said with a mischievous smile, helping herself to breakfast. “I have _so much_ to catch you up on!”

And then she was off. Mary applied herself to the food and simply nodded along as Hermione chattered away in a way she hadn’t heard in _months_ – in a more animated, less lecturing tone than her report on the Ravenclaws’ political analyses, or the one she used when they were working on homework together.

“I’ve already told you about working on studying for my O-levels, right? Well, I’ve finished with all the Year 8 material, and about half of Year 9. I really like Geometry – it makes so much sense with Arithmancy. Well, with more dimensions. I’ve also been reading ahead in the magical subjects, because I figured, well… why not? I could probably take my OWLs at the end of the year – not that I _would_ – I’d rather wait and get O’s on everything than try to take them soon and just do alright. That takes up about half of my free time in any given week. I’ve been trying to keep a low profile about the Turner, so I’ve really only been showing up to the MSA, as far as extra-curriculars go. I don’t know if I mentioned, we voted on officers at the second meeting. Penny’s the President, now, Eric’s VP, and I’m the Secretary.” She frowned slightly.

Mary hid a grin. After Hermione’s speech at the first meeting, she could guess why she hadn’t been made President. “I’m sorry,” she said insincerely. “If it helps, I’m not an officer for the Dueling Club at all.”

“No, it doesn’t particularly, but it’s not important,” the older girl obviously lied, and quickly changed the subject. “I stumbled onto the Parliamentarians in October. It’s very informal. It’s kind of an offshoot of the Arithmancy club, and it’s been around for years, but they don’t have official meetings or anything. They just hang out at their table in the Common Room, and debate models and make predictions whenever they have time. And then bet on them. John Arrowgate is in charge of it, but he’s less of a President and more of a bookie.”

The younger girl giggled at that description, and Hermione gave her a wry grin. “Don’t tell me you thought Slytherin had cornered the market on in-school gambling.”

“No, of course not!” she laughed. She hadn’t actually given the matter much thought.

“Yes, well, in any case, I’ve been spending quite a bit of time studying with them, and with Padma and Mandy, when I’m not with you and Lilian at the library. Only the things I _should_ be studying, you know. Homework. Padma and Mandy are still pretending they don’t know about the time turner.” She stressed her Ravenclaw friends’ names in a way that suggested she was still a bit sore over the fact that her Slytherin friends weren’t doing the same.

“You’re not, um… still upset about that, are you?” Mary asked hesitantly.

Hermione sighed. “No. I mean, I _have_ gotten a lot more done these last few months, learned a lot, and I can’t really complain about _that_ , so I guess I can’t complain about you guys pushing me into taking that first step, either. I just wish you’d had better timing, or something. I don’t know.”

“Sorry.” This time, Mary meant it.

“No, it’s fine. Don’t apologize. Anyway. That’s the… less sketchy part of what I’ve been up to, basically. The _more_ sketchy part is, well... I’ve been doing _loads_ of theoretical reading on blood wards and protective rituals, possession, soul magic… and basically anything else I could think of that would help us figure out what happened with you and the Dark Lord and Riddle, and what Dumbledore and your mum might have done, and how it all fits together.”

“I’m kind of surprised you’ve _found_ anything about any of that. It sounds… really dark.”

“It is. It’s um… a little horrifying. Like, really, really awful. The things wizards can do to each other with magic…” she shuddered. “Dying is the _least_ of your worries if a _real_ dark wizard decides to torture you. I’ve had nightmares about the things I’ve read,” she admitted.

Mary could believe it. The older girl had spent most of the nights since they had been sharing a room tossing and turning, and she always seemed to wake up tired. “So you really have been camping out in the Restricted Section, then?” she asked, trying to inject some levity into the conversation.

“Kind of… the thing is, and you have to promise you’re not going to be upset about this, and you can’t tell anyone, either, not even Lilian, understand?” She paused, and Mary nodded eagerly, too curious to think of doing otherwise. “The thing is, I’ve kind of been doing like… an independent study of sorts, with Snape.”

“You’ve _what?_ ” the Slytherin sat back, shocked. “How the hell did you manage _that_?”

“Well… it started that first week I started triple-timing it. Snape held me after Potions, because I guess he noticed I’d been popping up too much where I shouldn’t have been, back before I quite figured out how to make the logistics work without being too suspicious. And he told me that more or less everything I knew about the history of time turners was wrong – apparently they’re a Death Eater invention, really – and he gave me a detention so I could read through his log of the time travel mishaps he’s had to fix since he started working at Hogwarts. Um… mostly in an effort to make sure I’d be careful, I’m sure.

“And then a few weeks later, I ran out of references in the open section of the library, since most of what I needed to have a look at was Restricted, or outright Banned, so I asked him if he’d give me a pass to the Restricted Section. I thought he would be the best one to ask, since he has an interest in what’s going on with the Dark Lord, as well, and, well, I wouldn’t have to lie about what I wanted to look up and why, like I would if I asked Professor Flitwick. He asked me what topics I was interested in, and then he said that there was no way he was going to let have open access to any of it, but that if I was willing to write research reports for him, as more of a guided reading, and have a meeting with him to discuss them every week, he’d give me an unrestricted pass. I agreed, of course. I mean, wouldn’t you?”

Mary nodded. Of course she would. _Any_ Slytherin would, and probably any Ravenclaw as well. She was slightly jealous, actually. (Less so than she would have been before their detentions, and Snape demonstrating that he didn’t actually care for her more than any other student, but still…) “Did you find anything that looks promising?”

“Well, not right away. It’s hard to say what will end up being useful, though. Everything’s so interconnected. He usually gives me an essay topic for each week, and I turn it in to him on Friday, and we meet up after he’s had a chance to read it over. But since I have three times as many hours, I normally get through summarizing all the available literature a day or two early, and then I can spend as much time as I want looking into other things, like _really_ advanced magical theory and philosophy, digging deeper into what the Powers actually _are_ and how magic actually _works_ , and we talk about that, too.”

“ _Why_?”

“Well, partly out of curiosity, of course,” the Ravenclaw grinned. (Mary rolled her eyes. _Of course_.) “And partly for more background on the topics I’m summarizing for Snape. But also because that’s the direction freeform magic and the question of spontaneous magical tattooing seemed to be taking me.

“Best guess on that, by the way, is that the Libra is your _token_ , the sign that represents you in your personal runic lexicon. That’s a semi-unconscious association thing that comes up in books on scrying, enchanting, and advanced, personalized wardcrafting. It’s kind of obscure, since most of the people who would be doing that kind of magic or even just being keyed into wards in a way that they would need to identify a symbol for themselves would _also_ be presented to magic at a very young age, but if you’ve already identified your token _before_ you’re presented to magic, the theory is that it’s kind of encoded in your magical signature, an indelible part of your personal identity, and the mark forms as a symbol of the connection between your personal magic and outside magic or Magic with a capital ‘M.’”

“Okay, but there’s only one problem with that theory,” Mary said, raising an eyebrow at the rather long-winded (and, toward the end, breathless) explanation.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve never found this symbol or token or whatever for myself. I don’t even know how you would.”

Hermione hesitated. “I thought of that. I figured you’d’ve known the significance of it, if you _remembered_ that it was your token. I actually set it aside as an explanation for a while for exactly that reason. But then I was reading a book on designating individuals’ roles in multi-person ritual creation, just a few days before break, and, well… It was kind of archaic language, but I think it was saying that the token can be used for that, along with any of the four humors, or your name, especially if it’s signed by your own hand. So I started thinking it might have had something to do with… whatever happened in the Chamber of Secrets and it… it feels right.

“We already know there was _some_ kind of Black Arts ritual going on down there. Did you know that Snape went down and looked over the evidence for signs of what exactly had happened?”

“No, no one’s mentioned anything to me,” Mary admitted. She didn’t mind, really. She would much rather not think about the Chamber of Secrets at all most of the time.

Hermione nodded. “He said most of it had been cleaned up before he got there. There was one circle that was burnt into the floor, and a couple of areas that had been cleaned with scouring charms. He says there were magical traces of manifestations of the Binding, Chaotic, Constructive and Destructive Powers, and at least three ritual events distinct from the one that went with the circle that was burnt into the floor. We’re still trying to decipher exactly what that would have done, by the way. There were _physical_ traces of basilisk blood in a few spots that he says are most likely from blood-linked runes. We only know that, though, because it kind of ate away at the stone a bit. Activating the runes would have erased the actual magical traces and the runes were scoured away, after, so we don’t know how or why it was used. It seems like a good chance your blood was used in linking runes as well. There were a couple of rocks that had been transfigured multiple times, with traces of your blood on them, mixed with chalk. So it would make sense if your ‘token’ was used somehow.”

“Oh.” Mary couldn’t think of anything else to say to that. She supposed it was good to know that there were _some_ leads as to what had happened down there, even if she didn’t know what good they would actually do. “Is there anything I can do to help? With the research, and figuring things out, I mean?”

“I’ll ask, but I kind of doubt it,” Hermione said blithely. “It’s mostly down to figuring out what runes he used in the burnt circle and why, at the moment, and looking for rituals that might have involved any or all of those Powers, and books with that kind of information are hard to come by. Snape has quite a good collection, and decent contacts to borrow or acquire others, but they’re mostly Banned, and some are even Anathema, so it can be tricky finding references or examples that might have served as inspiration.”

“Inspiration?” Mary interrupted.

Hermione snorted humorlessly. “Part of the problem of trying to figure out what happened in the Chamber, or with your mum in 1981, is that most of the actual rituals, and the more dangerous curse incantations, for that matter, are lost or locked up tight in family grimoires, or were deliberately destroyed by the Wizengamot as too dangerous, after their creators were killed or arrested for going rogue and actually _using_ them on other people. The Restricted Section is mostly histories and descriptions when it comes to curses: theory, not _instructions_. They’re _Restricted_ so that they won’t give anyone bad ideas.”

The younger girl felt a flood of relief at the answer to a question she hadn’t realized she’d been holding back. “So you’re not actually learning Dark Arts or Black Arts, or whatever?”

“Well… I _kind of_ am, but kind of not. See, learning Dark Arts isn’t quite like learning Charms or Transfiguration. I _have_ picked up a load of nasty hexes and jinxes – not that I’ve actually _cast_ them,” she hastened to add. “Battle magic, basically, that’s Restricted because it’s too destructive for students to be messing around with. Snape says that stuff is _politically_ ‘Dark Arts,’ but not inherently _dark magic_.

“Maleficium, the Greater Dark Art that gets conflated with political ‘Dark Arts,’ is less about learning proper wand movements and incantations and more about… assimilating the mentality behind it, I suppose. I mean, there _are_ wand movements and incantations and arithmantic breakdowns and diagrams, but, well… Snape says that the heart of the Maleficia is finding ways to express malicious intent via magic. It’s very… personalized. Individualistic. Emotional. Visceral. It all comes down to intent, power, and control. There _are_ proper curses, of course, but, well… it really is an art, more than anything.”

The bit about intent, power, and control sounded vaguely familiar, but Mary couldn’t place it. “Is it this creepy when Snape talks about it?” she had to ask. It was one thing to see her friend babble excitedly over her latest academic exploits, but it was something else entirely when she was talking about the Greater Dark Arts and _malicious intent_.

Hermione flushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied.

“Art? Visceral? The Dark Arts?”

“Okay, fine, yes, I know it’s a bit creepy,” the older girl admitted, sticking out her tongue. “But it’s _fascinating_ , and yes, to answer your question, Snape is _way_ worse. He called the Maleficia an ever-shifting hydra, fueled by the basest instincts of mankind, and limited only by human imagination in its effects. His exact words were that it is ‘unfixed and ultimately indestructible; constant only in its inconstancy, and tenacious its flexibility. Wherever it is rooted out, it invariably crops up again, the form subtly different, perhaps, but drawing on the same foundation, the fundamental darkness of the human species reflected in the greatest of Arts. The Maleficia and the Beneficia lie equally close to directing Magic in its purest, unadulterated form, but the Maleficia are by far the more powerful, for the human capacity for inflicting cruelty and suffering on each other far outstrips our natural ability or inclination simply to _be good_ …’”

Mary shivered. Snape did have a way with words. Even if Hermione couldn’t quite capture his intensity and subtle shifts in tone, the general inflection was enough for the Slytherin to imagine her head of house making his speech, lingering over the description with a sort of caustic appreciation for the magic he discussed. It reminded her of the speech he had given when he introduced them all to Potions, way back at the beginning of first year, but far more disturbing.

She had the impression that she was getting an illicit, second-hand look at the reason the man had become a Death Eater in the first place, so long ago.

“You know what? I take it back. I’m not jealous of you at all.” Hermione raised an eyebrow, and she realized that she hadn’t ever said that she _did_ envy the other girl aloud, but that didn’t matter. “Doesn’t it, I don’t know… wig you out?”

The Ravenclaw sighed, and pushed her plate away so she could put her elbows on the table. She rested her hands on her shoulders, and her chin on her crossed wrists. It was one of her favorite reading positions. Mary thought it made her look ridiculous, especially when she was talking.

“It did, at first,” she admitted. “I mean, it’s not like I didn’t know there were bad people in the world, even before Hogwarts. I did. I watch the news, and read the papers – I know about that nurse Allitt who was killing kids in hospital, and things like the illegal slave trade and the Gulf War and Sierra Leone. But until this year, I just… didn’t realize how much worse those people can be if they have magic.”

The Slytherin refrained from asking how that hadn’t crossed her friend’s mind at any point after they had known that Voldemort had been in the bloody school two years in a row, and bit her tongue on pointing out that _they_ had _been_ ‘those people’ when it came to the Conspiracy. It was just as well: Hermione was still talking.

“I didn’t think about how much scarier war can be, when everyone basically has a loaded gun at all times. It’s… I’m still adjusting to it, to be perfectly honest. I just… It’s a bit like when I learned that vampires and werewolves and all the monsters out of muggle myths were real, and more. But I’m getting used to it.”

Mary gave her an understanding nod, but that wasn’t really what she had meant. “I actually meant isn’t it weird having _Snape_ talk about the Dark Arts like that, though, not that dark wizards exist in general.”

Hermione cocked her head to the side slightly. “We both knew he was a Death Eater.”

“Well, _yeah_ , but he isn’t really… obvious about it. Yeah, he plays up the stereotype with the robes and the attitude, but he doesn’t ever make a big deal of being a dark wizard. He _never_ talks about the war, and definitely not in a way that sounds like he’s still really into the Dark Arts.”

“Well, it’s not like telling me is making it _public_ ,” the older girl smiled ruefully, sitting up again. “But that is part of the reason I said you really couldn’t tell anyone. He was pretty clear that if word got out what we were doing, it would stop immediately. Dumbledore wouldn’t like it, and it some, well… a _lot_ of the books I’ve been reading are illegal.”

“Are you worried about that?” One of the lessons Mary had learned in detention was that Hogwarts was a major legal grey-area, but if Dumbledore wanted to press charges against Snape for giving a student access to illegal texts, her Head of House would almost certainly end up in Azkaban.

“Snape thinks that the worst-case scenario would be Dumbledore confiscating and destroying the books, and maybe forbidding all contact between us outside of class. And it’s important to include them in the research, because a lot of them _weren’t_ banned fifty years ago, so Riddle easily could have gotten access to them. Any one of them could have been an important influence on his thinking.”

“That inspiration thing you were talking about earlier?” Mary asked, realizing that they had strayed far from the topic of her original question.

“Ah… yes,” Hermione said, clearly mentally backtracking as well. “Even back then, there wouldn’t really have been anyone _teaching_ Dark Arts at Hogwarts. I said that most dark arts texts are actually histories or descriptive, not instructive, right? And that they’re hidden away so that we won’t get bad ideas?” Mary nodded. “Well, part of that is because the actual means of casting curses tend to be kept hidden, or destroyed, or else counters are developed for them fairly quickly. But one of the reasons the Maleficia are so varied and hard to fight is that any wizard with a certain amount of power and creativity has the potential to come up with his own ways of creating a given effect, that can’t necessarily be countered by the same means that work on older curses with _similar_ effects, because he had to start from scratch when he was designing it.

“The reason I said I kind of _am_ learning the Maleficia is a lot of dark wizards and witches start by doing what I’m doing, researching what’s already been done and getting a feel for different techniques and styles in the abstract, and the sort of things that dark magic can do – those things are easier to replicate simply because they’ve been done before.

“Snape says that’s part of reifying a curse, convincing the universe to act in a certain way in response to your magic’s influence, and it’s easier if there’s already… an imprint, sort of, for your curse to follow. It will tend to flow through the same channels, even if you effected it differently. Even if there’s not really a step-by-step guide to _casting_ each spell available, with wand movements and incantations, there are sort of well-worn paths, enough that it’s relatively easy for dark wizards to tweak existing neutral or light spells and give them a more malevolent twist, and they’ll still work, albeit somewhat less efficiently.

“So I couldn’t necessarily create a spell from scratch, but I could probably put enough dark intent behind a Severing Charm to result in a variation that would cut a person to the bone, instead of just giving you a scratch like Lilian did when she missed the target in class. That variation wouldn’t necessarily have exactly the same arithmantic breakdown as if, say… Theo did it, even though it would still have the same effects, because our magic would be basically improvising. And both of them would be different from if you actually knew enough spellcrafting to work in arithmantic variables to resist healing charms, or carry a secondary curse into the wound, or optimize the efficiency. That would be a new curse altogether, and somewhat harder to reify and cast reliably, but still easier than, say… a curse to make all of your hairs ingrown, because there are dozens of dark cutting curses that follow the same path or channel, and I’ve only come across one ingrown hair curse.”

Mary made a face at that. Ingrown hairs were just _gross._ Hermione ignored her. “Point is, we’re assuming that Riddle would have learned the Dark Arts basically the same way, by seeing or thinking of an effect he wanted to duplicate, and then tweaking existing spells and rituals to accomplish that task. It’s kind of an analogous process, developing new rituals and developing new curses. At least _some_ of what he was doing would have fallen more in line with Subsumation rather than Maleficium, but since Subsumation has been Anathema since before the Statute, it’s a bit more likely that he was basically re-inventing the wheel using what he could pick up of Maleficium techniques, than that he was actually basing them on proper Subsumation rituals.”

“What exactly is Subsumation? And anathema?” Mary asked, getting a word in edgewise for the first time in ages.

“Anathema means that the Wizengamot and later the Ministry and the International Confederation, have systematically destroyed any information they can find on how to do it, and, erm… Subsumation is Vampirism, basically. Not just the blood-drinking sort, thought. Visanguination is one of the less-dangerous aspects of it, actually, from what I understand. It’s the Greater Dark Art that has to do with adding to your own power or life or strength at the expense of someone else’s. Stealing Ginny’s life-force and magic would have been Subsumation, specifically a Lesser Art called Captandum, life-capturing or spark-theft.

“Subsumation as a whole is considered too dangerous to exist because it can, theoretically, allow wizards to become ridiculously powerful, gain eternal youth, and live forever by preying on each other. Its sub-disciplines include life-drinking, ambient power assimilation, power-sapping, psychic or sexual vampirism and so on. Practicing any of them is considered Unforgivable, which means a one-way trip through the Veil, or life in Nurmengard or Azkaban, if they think death is too easy for you. Some creatures like vampires and Lilin rely on similar techniques for basic survival, and can be killed for using them _on_ wizards. It’s _technically_ illegal for them to feed on muggles, too, in most countries, but that’s almost impossible to enforce.

“Anyway, we’re working off the theory that Riddle didn’t know there is a theoretical distinction between the different Greater Dark Arts, at least when he made his first horcrux, so I’ve been looking for anything that seems vaguely related to the hints I’ve got from Ginny and from what you’ve told me, for anything that might help us figure out what he was doing in the Chamber. It’s slow going, though, and it doesn’t help that we don’t really know for certain what the _purpose_ of the ritual was.”

“Creating a body,” Mary suggested promptly.

“Well, that is our first guess, too. There’s a very distinct, ‘I won’t be trapped in this diary _forever_ , Ginevra,’ sort of theme to Gin’s memories, and he did outright _tell_ you that was what he wanted. And one of the three bits we don’t have circles for was probably destroying the horcrux. And maybe one to bind the soul from the horcrux to the body? The real question is _how_ he would have created the body, and bound them together, and whether the rituals he used would have had any side-effects for you and the Weasleys.” At the look on Mary’s face, she added consolingly, “The fact that we haven’t seen any so far suggests not, but you can’t really be too careful with this kind of thing.”

“Do I even want to _know_ what kind of side effects we’re talking about?”

“No. Definitely not.” Hermione shivered and made a face. Her eyes looked haunted, but she shook off whatever she was thinking after a moment. “That’s the sort of thing that gives me nightmares. Well, that and the descriptions of some of those curses. The horcrux ritual is relatively tame, compared to some of the others I’ve read about. Lady Bathory’s Bath, or the Kelling, or the Curse of Marseilles. They’re only described in the vaguest of terms, and they’re still horrifying. And that’s not even getting into the ones that target the soul itself, like the Malattia dei Borgia or the Aniquilaram. Even Arzătoare și Întuneric sounds worse than the horcrux ritual, and that’s a _counter curse_ … kind of.

“And that’s before we even get into whatever your mum might have done to protect you. Soul magic isn’t tied to any one of the Great Arts – it crops up in subsumation, necromancy, maleficium, all kinds of binding rituals, even demonic congress and bio-alchemy, if you want to count resurrection animation as a sort of temporary ensoulment. And according to Snape, there’s no guarantee that your mum would have stuck to Dark Arts. There’s all sorts of protective spells she could have used and tweaked, or she might easily have created her own ritual or rituals. Problem is, _outside_ of the Dark Arts, most of the books just go on with these dire warnings about how Soul Magic is insanely difficult and dangerous and evil, and don’t say much more than that. It took me over twenty hours of slogging through that shite to realize that half the danger is in wizards not knowing any more about the soul than muggles do, or what it does, or if it even really _exists_.”

“If it doesn’t exist, what the bloody hell are the spells doing?” Mary asked, startled. It wasn’t something she’d given a _lot_ of thought to, but the very fact that _soul magic_ existed had seemed to her a reason to assume that souls _also_ existed. And what about ghosts, and whatever they had experienced at that very first Samhain Revel, so long ago?

Hermione shrugged. “Obviously they’re targeting _something_ , maybe the mind, or magic? But it’s all so intent-based that if you don’t at least _think_ you know what you’re doing, or you aren’t on the same page as the person who invented the spell, you can do all sorts of horrible things by accident. You don’t want to know what those are, either,” she added drily, then sighed. “I’m going to grab a glass of water. You want one?”

“Sure.” Mary’s mind was reeling from the torrent of unfamiliar information. She had forgotten how exhausting talking to Hermione for long periods could be. She had no doubt that the older girl knew far more than she had just mentioned, after however many months of reading she had done. Six? Seven? The Ravenclaw had an excellent memory, but she could only focus on so many things at once, and she was easily distracted. Long conversations between them often left Mary with more questions than answers, as they drifted from one tangent to another and only rarely returned to any given point unless Mary herself managed _not_ to be distracted long enough to remind Hermione of where they had left off. It always left her with a lot to process.

Hermione returned with two glasses of water and a plate of sandwiches shortly after Mary began wondering what had happened to her, and whether she ought to have followed her into the kitchen.

“Good news!” she said brightly. “This is the last of the ham!”

“Thank Merlin! I thought we were going to have left-overs for the rest of break,” the younger girl laughed.

“I think dad might have binned some of it, or fed it to stray dogs, or something.”

“Maybe,” Mary agreed. Dan did like cooking too much to be enthusiastic about finishing off Christmas dinner a week later. “Hey Maia?”

“Hmmm?” she hummed, mouth full.

“Are you keeping copies of your reports for Snape?”

She had to wait a moment for Hermione to finish chewing, but then: “Not the actual _reports_ , no. But I do have my notes on everything. Do you want me to make you a clean copy?”

“Only if it’s not too much trouble,” she answered hastily.

“I’d have to do it for myself, anyway. There’s so many connections, now, I need to go back and look at the first things I read again, and see if I understand it better, now that I’ve got a broader view of the literature. I was planning to do it the first week back.”

“But copying everything for me will be a pain. I could just read yours when you were done,” Mary suggested, relieved that she wasn’t asking her friend to go too far out of her way.

But Hermione shook her head. “You should have your own, in case you want to look at it or find things to add things to it over the summer or something. Tell you what, get a couple of those fancy never-ending grimoires when you go up to town, if you want to make it up to me.”

“Um, I don’t actually think I’m going to go.” Mary had owled Tonks to ask whether she might be available to accompany the girls on an unplanned shopping trip to Diagon and Knockturn Alleys, and the Auror Trainee had, of course, asked why she wanted to go to Knockturn. “I just got a letter from Tonks last night saying that I can borrow her old dueling knife, and see if I like it before I buy one of my own. She said she’ll bring it over tomorrow if your mum says it’s okay. So I don’t really have a good reason to. But I can owl-order them for you,” she suggested eagerly. It was only fair that she pay for materials if Hermione was going to put in the time and effort on research and copying.

The Ravenclaw looked slightly disappointed that they wouldn’t have an excuse to wander around the bookstores of Diagon Alley without her parents’ supervision, but she shrugged and said, “Okay. Just have them delivered to Hogwarts. I can’t start until we get back, anyway.”

The rest of the day passed just as quickly as the morning had, as the girls chattered about lighter subjects: Slytherin drama, Ravenclaw projects, and gossip from every house in the school.

When Emma returned, they ambushed her in the kitchen, and Hermione presented her argument that it was Lady Malfoy she had been meeting with on the sly. Emma smiled slightly ruefully, and admitted that the cat was well and truly out of the bag: apparently Draco had stumbled upon the ladies’ luncheon, so it was only a matter of time until _everybody_ knew. Mary was slightly worried about Emma’s safety, as a muggle visiting the house of one of the most outspoken pureblood supremacists she, personally, knew (Draco), but Emma said that Lady Malfoy was well aware that Mrs. Tonks knew where she was, and would hold her accountable if Emma went missing or showed up obliviated, so she felt safe enough.

Dan returned shortly after that, and they celebrated having finally run out of ham by making chicken tikka masala. It wasn’t quite as good as his French dishes, but a dramatic change from the increasingly bland Christmas leftovers.

Everything went very well, in fact, up until the point where Dan and Emma had wandered off to the kitchen to make popcorn and pour champagne (and really to have a few minutes of ‘alone time,’ Mary was sure, since it didn’t take _that_ long to make popcorn). She and Hermione, giggling at the elder Grangers’ silliness, had gone up to the Entertainment Room to wait, and attempt to tune in to the BBC for the televised fireworks that would be coming on… soon. Reception through the wards was fussy and unpredictable at best.

“What time is it?” Mary asked, poking buttons on the VCR. The clock was wrong. It had been bothering her for ages, and now seemed as good a time as any to fix it.

“Oh, um… just a second.”

She looked around to see the older girl fiddling with a heavy-looking brass watch. Mary hadn’t even known she _had_ a watch. They always used the Tempus charm at school. “Is that new?”

“Oh – what?” Hermione looked vaguely guilty, which only made the Slytherin more curious about the timepiece. “Yes.” She hesitated, obviously steeling herself, then added: “It was a Christmas gift.”

“Who from?” Mary thought she had seen all of Hermione’s gifts, and she couldn’t think of any reason a Christmas present should make her feel guilty.

The older girl mumbled something she couldn’t quite make out.

“What?”

“It was from Fred and George, alright?”

“Fred and George?” Mary repeated flatly. “I don’t understand. Why would _they_ buy you a Christmas gift?”

“They didn’t buy it, they _made_ it –”

“ _So_ not the point, Hermione! Why are you even still talking to them? And why didn’t you _tell_ me? Have you been – have you been _hiding_ this, _intentionally_?” her voice was rising slightly hysterically, but she didn’t really care. She thought it was justified, seeing as those two idiots _still_ hadn’t apologized to her for the Chamber of Secrets, and one of her so-called best friends had led her to believe she had Mary’s back, when she _obviously didn’t_.

“No!” the older girl objected quickly. “Well, not really – damn it! Only because I _knew_ this was how you would react!”

“Girls? What’s going on?” Emma interrupted. She was carrying a tray with glasses of sparkling wine, and Dan had a bowl of popcorn, as promised.

Hermione hesitated, but Mary, channeling Lilian in the face of the realization that Hermione had been sneaking around with the gods-cursed _Weasleys_ all term, did not. “ _Hermione_ is still _friends_ with the backstabbing wankers that kidnapped me into the Chamber of Secrets!”

“Elizabeth!” Hermione looked at her, stunned. Dan and Emma looked at Hermione as one, not even reprimanding Mary for her language.

“Is this true, Maia-bee?” Dan asked carefully.

“They were worried about their sister!” Hermione defended them.

“They were _stupid_ and _Gryffindor_!” Mary snapped back. “They put us _all_ in more danger!”

“They weren’t thinking clearly!”

“That’s no excuse!”

“Girls! Girls!” Emma tried to interrupt, but they both ignored her.

“They _kidnapped me_ and they’re _not even sorry_!” Mary continued.

“They just –”

Dan cut Hermione off with a very loud whistle.

“I don’t think we feel entirely comfortable with your keeping company with that sort of person,” Emma said.

Dan nodded. “You seemed just as angry with them over the summer. Weren’t they the ones who turned you into a cat-person?”

“And the ones you said were bullying you about your looks?” Emma added.

“They apologized for that!”

“But not for _kidnapping me_?! Are you fucking serious?!”

“Hermione, dear,” Emma started, but Hermione, tears of frustration in her eyes, cut her off.

“You can’t tell me who to be friends with!” she yelled at them, and shoved her way out of the room, nearly causing Dan to spill the popcorn. “I don’t have to justify myself to you!” floated back to them as the girl stomped down the hallway toward her room.

“Hermione!” her father called sharply, and started after her, but Emma stopped him.

“Let her go, Dan. Let her cool off, before you talk to her.”

A door slammed, and Dan sighed. “Fine.” There was a moment of silence, save for the sound of fireworks and Auld Lang Syne playing on the telly. “Happy New Year,” he added after a moment, his voice heavy with irony.

Mary mustered a weak smile. “Somehow I don’t feel much like celebrating anymore,” she said. She left the adults exchanging worried, indecisive looks, and retreated to the downstairs living room sofa. There was no way she was going to sleep in the same room as Hermione tonight.

#### Knockturn Alley, London

##### Lord Voldemort

Lord Voldemort did not consider himself a man prone to fits of joy. In truth, he hardly considered himself a _man_ – after all, _men_ were _mortal_.

_He_ was _not_.

But the point was, he was not often a happy _being_ , man or not. The feeling was foreign and almost uncomfortable in its strangeness.

But tonight, he was very pleased with himself nevertheless, because _tonight_ , over a year and a half after being evicted from the near-corpse of that inane moron _Quirrell_ , by one of his own (Severus Snape would _pay_ for his disloyalty!) he had finally wormed his way into the mind and body of another wizard.

It had been harder, this time – harder even than it had been the first time, to acquire a willing host.

Then, years and years before, when his body had been destroyed by the infant Potter and he felt himself being drawn into that wretched witch’s trap, when he had torn himself free of it, and damaged himself in ways he had not thought were possible – even then there had been _energy_. His power had been waning, to be sure, and quickly, but he had been able to ride the wave of power, the backlash from the splitting of his life-spark (and how far he had come, indeed, that even _that_ had not killed him – further along the path of immortality than any man in history had ever come, he was certain), directing himself eastward, far enough from England that the pull of his horcruxes did not unduly hinder his movements. Far enough that Dumbledore’s power would not find him. The wave had run out and he had fallen far short of his goal – Istanbul, where there were wizards with the power to revive him and a teeming underworld of unscrupulous characters who would underestimate his wraith, easy targets…

He had landed, instead, in the dark forests of Romania and, all sense of direction lost, made his way by snake and rat out of the woods, following the pull of _self_ and _history_ , the senses of the wraith more shadow-creature than human. He fetched up in the Albanian hinterlands, near the now-abandoned hovel he recognized as the place where he had created his final horcrux, the diadem. There he rested, possessing serpents, killing his hosts as he siphoned away their life energy and that of their prey, biding his time, gathering strength. He could not have said how long it was, that period of time when he moved like a slow shadow across Bulgaria and Serbia, nor how long he waited, building his strength, but at long last, a man – a _wizard_ – alone and weak, wandered into his forest, thinking to stay the night safely in the abandoned cottage before he continued on his trek.

Lord Voldemort, in the body of a serpent, slithered into his bed, whispering sweetly, mind to mind. Golden ideas of power, glory, and recognition seeped into his sleeping thoughts. He stowed himself away in the wizard’s bags, and every night, every day, corrupted him further, until the line between sleeping and waking blurred, and the wizard, _Quirrell_ , welcomed Lord Voldemort willingly into his mind, this voice that promised all the things he had never dared to want for himself before.

They had returned to London, then to the school – what great good fortune it was, that the wizard already worked there, that he could return without question, no need, even, for any suspicious accidents to befall another candidate (or perhaps that, too, was his own doing, indirectly, the wizard’s fate already entwined with his own, for he had already willingly taken on the curse laid down, so many years ago, the gauntlet thrown at Dumbledore and his _Defense Professors_ ).

And then he had heard that the Philosopher’s Stone would be brought to the school – another stroke of fortune, to have a convenient means of maintaining his host until he could arrange a more permanent re-birth so close at hand.

But Quirrell, by then, had realized who he was, whom he had so naïvely invited into his mind. He was seeing, already, the effects of possession – the effects of a presence no longer of this plane on a body that most decidedly _was_. He tried to fight, sabotaging his rightful lord’s efforts. For that alone, he would have been disposed of, when the time had come. He had not wanted to kill Mary Potter, had tried only reluctantly, and had been equally reluctant in his efforts to discover the _true_ protections on the Stone – not the little children’s obstacles, so easily by-passed, but the underlying tricks that _must_ exist, so well concealed that even _he_ had not been able to identify them.

It took many months before he was fully able to break Quirrell’s spirit, bring him to heel. The first unicorn’s blood was the turning point. It was only after the silver life’s blood passed his lips that Quirrell realized the only way to further sustain himself was to serve his lord’s will and take the Stone – not that he would have lived long past then, for his earlier failures. By the time he had done it, discovered Dumbledore’s great trick, it was nearly too late, and then – _then_ the _traitor_ , Snape, and that little Potter abomination had ruined _everything_!

Unlike the first time, when he had ridden a wave of power out of the pull of the safety net and trap he had created for himself, Snape, who would _burn_ for the indignities he had caused his lord to suffer, had stripped him of his power and banished him _directly into the center of it_. Born of this world, the ritual his unfaithful minion had used (and how spiteful Snape was, using a _light_ devocation – it must have hurt him nearly as much as Lord Voldemort, steeped in the dark as he _knew_ the slimy little prick was) had only sent him to the place he was most strongly drawn to: the geographical balancing-point of the competing attractive forces of his horcruxes. He was suspended, unable to move, _underground_ (Bella would be made to find some way to repay him for the oversight of consigning one of his anchors to the depths of Gringott’s, despite the fact that she _had_ been right about that skeezy little half-blood bastard all along – and she had _best_ not _dare_ say ‘I told you so’ when he finally tracked her down!), without even rats or snakes nearby to suck the life from, to attach himself to and use their bodies to fight the elastic pull which was drawing him relentlessly back to the center of the web. He required more energy, always more, to resist it, to move away from that point.

When he finally reached the surface, fed by the paltry sparks of earthworms and beetles, he found himself… in a field. A fucking _field_. In the middle of nowhere. A single human presence passed by him _once_ in the many weeks he was trapped there, luring in mice and finally, _finally_ , a snake. A harmless grass snake, a male, small, and relatively weak as snakes went, but more welcome than any other presence he had ever encountered in his life. He sank into the reptile’s mind almost gratefully, careful not to harm it, lest he be trapped again in the endless ocean of dirt and invertebrates and _rodents_. (If he never had to possess and assimilate another rodent’s life-spark again, it would be _too soon_.)

He had found the farm-house as the weather began to grow cool, approached the muggles who lived there in the same way he had Quirrell. Unfortunately it seemed his luck had momentarily abandoned him, for the muggle whose mind he whispered to was a _Christian_ , and stubbornly disinclined to trust the voice of a serpent whispering directly into his mind, even as he slept. He had been lucky to escape with his grass snake intact, but had been forced to set off in search of another target, a more likely victim.

He did not find one before winter fell upon him, and was forced to allow his host to burrow and hibernate, once again confined, unable to approach a human host, and unwilling to sacrifice the relative comfort of the snake for a more active but less appealing _rodent_. A pair of rabbits denned too near him, and he briefly took hold of their minds and bodies, ripping the life from them to sustain his hold on the snake with a viciousness he sorely missed from the days when he had had a body of his own. He waited for _months_ , impatient, but trapped for the moment by accursed _biology_. (One of the few things he found he genuinely _preferred_ about a human body: internal temperature regulation.)

In the spring he was forced to abandon his snake, its body too mutated by his presence to survive much longer. He forced it to lurk near a pond until he found its replacement, a strong, melanistic female adder. She carried him to a nearby city, where he found the lowest of the low – the drug addicts and madmen who wouldn’t even notice a new voice in their head. She remained at his side over the summer and through the autumn, while he worked his way up the hierarchy of homeless drunks and wastrels, each one slightly more presentable than the last, until he found one that would survive a trip to London, that would pass as an drunk and absentminded wizard long enough to follow an _actual_ drunk and absentminded wizard through one of the hidden doorways, that would allow him to begin the process over again with hags and indigent werewolves, and the largest population of Spark addicts in Britain: the depths of Knockturn Alley.

And now, _now_ this was a day to _celebrate_ , for he had managed at last to acquire a magical host!

As soon as the hook was sunk into the drunken, drug-addled, broken-down wizard’s mind, as soon as he had _permission_ , when the wizard _accepted_ him, he tore the remainder of the muggle’s life-force away. His heart stopped. A leg jerked once, and then the body began to cool. No one, not even the waste of magic he had so-recently acquired, noticed. The wizard was so high that it was a matter of _minutes_ for Lord Voldemort to fully take control with the burst of energy the muggle’s life (weak and paltry though it was) provided. He waited for the physical effects of the drug to wear off, then hauled himself to his newly acquired feet and set out to find his next victim. Not so far above this one in status or quality that the current body would chase the next one away, but enough that it could serve as the next step.

A rictus grin spread across his host’s face as he passed a hole in the wall filled with drunken merrymakers. They were counting down the seconds to the New Year with the wireless. As 1993 gave way to 1994, the being once known as the man Tom Riddle thought: _happy birthday to me_.

 


	25. Catching Up; Slowing Down

###  Saturday, 1 January 1994

#### Granger Home, East Farleigh, Kent

Unfortunately, three hours into the New Year and her latest fight with Hermione (she had got up to check the kitchen clock), it seemed Mary was not going to sleep _anywhere_. She was exhausted, but she couldn’t ignore the anxious feeling of betrayal simmering in the pit of her stomach long enough to fall unconscious.

She was, therefore, still awake when Hermione came creeping into the room with her lamp, whispering, “Lizzie? Liz? Are you still up?”

She considered lying (or rather, saying nothing and pretending she was asleep), but when she heard Hermione's disappointed sigh, she sat up. “What do you want?” she asked irritably.

The older girl came nearer, setting her light on the coffee table, and curling up at the other end of the sofa. “I… I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I feel like we’ve not been talking half the time since we’ve got back to school, and I just… I don’t want to start the year off on a bad foot. So I’m sorry. I know I should have told you. It just… I wasn’t really _trying_ to hide it, at first. It just… didn’t come up, with the time turner, and then it had been so long I knew you would be mad at me for not saying something, so I just… kept it quiet.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re friends with them in the first place,” Mary said coldly.

Hermione sighed. “I don’t know if I can really explain it.”

“Try.”

“Well… Lilian said she told you that we’d sworn a truce? Put all our differences behind us, on our honor, to end our little prank war?”

“Yeah, but she said it wasn’t like forgive and forget, just _move on_.”

“It is. Technically. But then I had to go fix their potions stores and they offered to let me in on their project with the Marauders’ Map if I’d let them have access to it, and then I started spending more time _turning_ , and so I ended up spending a lot more time with them than I’d really planned on, and somewhere along we ended up being more than just civil and… and… we’re friends.”

Mary didn’t know what to say to that. It sounded _so reasonable_ when the older girl put it that way, but she couldn’t get over that they were still terrible people, for not even feeling bad about what they had done to her.

But then, maybe Hermione was also a terrible person. It _was_ all three of them who had spearheaded the Conspiracy, after all. And hadn’t they spent half the morning talking about how Hermione was learning the Dark Arts? She had hardly seemed bothered by any of it, all nightmares aside.

“Lizzie? Say something, please,” Hermione begged, her face a shadow beneath her untamed mop of curls.

“What do you lot even have in common?” she asked grudgingly.

“Enchanting, mostly,” the other replied, seizing the conversational lifeline. “We’re trying to create a copy of the Map. And we’ve spent some time exploring. Snape told me about a room that isn’t on it – you know that one where we had the Mabon ceremony? It’s always there, but it takes the shape of whatever you need it to be. So we’re looking for other rooms that aren’t on it, and trying to find ways to add them. They’re… they’re really not so bad, once you get to know them.”

“They still don’t think they did anything wrong, though, kidnapping me! How can you be friends with them, when you _know_ that’s the kind of people they are?”

“They know what they did was wrong, they just don’t _regret_ it. There’s a difference!”

“They – they know?”

“They’ve admitted that if they had known then what they know now, they would have got Snape, like you told them to. They just… don’t apologize for things they’re not sorry about.”

“They still should,” Mary pouted.

“I don’t disagree with you,” Hermione said, in a tone reminiscent of her mother. “I… I understand, if _you_ can’t be friends after that, even if they _did_ apologize. But… They’ve been keeping me sane, Lizzie. Grounded. They make me _laugh_. You don’t know how important that is, when you’ve spent as many hours as I have surrounding yourself with stories of horrible things and magical theory that pushes you to the edge of madness, and it’s like, if you just go a _little_ further, you might be able to see everything, grasp it all... It’s scary. I… I don’t think I could give that up, what they do for me.”

The younger girl was afraid to ask what her friend’s answer would be if she said it was them or her. “You know you don’t have to do the research,” she said instead, regretting having thought only moments before that the older girl was unbothered by what she had been reading. “If it’s that bad for you, I mean. I know you have nightmares. You really don’t –”

“If I don’t do it, who will?” the Ravenclaw asked rhetorically. “Snape hasn’t the time. Dumbledore keeps him so busy I’m surprised he has time to even review my _summaries_. And the Old Goat himself won’t do it. Or if he did, he wouldn’t tell us what he found out. Who else is there? And besides, I’d rather know. Now that I know all the awful things magic can be made to do, and how terrible it can be, I don’t think I could stand being… being _ignorant_. Not knowing doesn’t make the bad things in the world not _exist_. I just need some light in my life to balance it out, you know?”

Mary didn’t. Or rather, she didn’t know how the twins could possibly be that for her friend. She did understand how she hated the thought of not knowing what was out there. It was half the reason she wanted a copy of the Ravenclaw’s notes. “You really like them?”

“I really do. They’re sweet and funny and protective and _so_ smart. And, well… _please_ don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s nice to have _older_ friends. I love you and Lili, really, I do, but they know so much more – and I’m closer to their age than yours already, and only getting further ahead.”

It was awfully hard _not_ to take that the wrong way, especially since she had never quite shaken the fear that she and Hermione were inevitably going grow apart ever since she found out how much the older girl was using the time turner. “So we’re just little kids to you, now?” she scoffed, trying not to sound too hurt.

“ _No!_ Of course not! You and Lili are the first friends I ever had. You’re practically a sister to me! I’m not going to leave you behind, or whatever you’re thinking, just because I’m _even older_ than you than I already was. I just… It’s nice to have older people to talk to as well, sometimes. They have a different perspective. The twins, especially. It’s…” She gave a small, strange laugh. “They help me relax. I help them be serious. It works. It’s good for all of us.” She shrugged, and Mary felt something within her shift, conceding defeat.

“Fine,” she said.

“Fine what?”

“Fine, I don’t care if you’re friends with them. _I’m_ not going to be friends with them, and I don’t want to hang out with them, or whatever, but I won’t stop talking to you over it,” the younger girl grumbled. She was immediately engulfed in a hug, and had to fight off Hermione’s masses of hair, prompting tickling and contagious giggles from her friend. When they finally regained control of themselves, she asked, very quietly, “You think of me like a sister?”

From where she was lying (half on top of Hermione, though it was unclear which of them was holding the other in place), she could feel the other girl nod. “Mm-hmm,” she confirmed sleepily.

“Me, too,” Mary whispered, as her own eyes finally drifted closed.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

When she woke, it was late. Light was already streaming through the window behind the Christmas tree, and she could hear the pleasantly homey sounds of Dan preparing breakfast. Hermione was still asleep. They had somehow managed to rearrange themselves so that they were both lying on their left sides on the couch, and one of the elder Grangers had draped a blanket over them. She squirmed free, and Hermione rolled over, burying her head in the crack between the back of the sofa and its seat.

The morning passed quickly. Mary had come to terms with it, but Dan and Emma still wanted to have a conversation about Hermione’s friendship with the twins. Rather than get caught in the middle, the younger girl took the cowardly option of running off to take a shower as soon as Hermione entered the kitchen. She whispered “Good luck,” as she passed, but her friend (her _sister_ ) had made her bed, as far as that whole situation went, and there was a vast chasm between _tolerating_ her friendship with the red-headed menaces and _helping_ _defend it_ to her parents.

That afternoon, ‘Don’t call me Nymphadora’ Tonks came over.

She rang the doorbell just a few minutes before Mary was expecting her, actually, and she didn’t recognize the metamorph at first. She was wearing a muggle coat, tight black trousers, and a plump-cheeked, heart-shaped face. The teenager was halfway through telling the auror trainee that the Grangers weren’t interested in whatever she was selling (politely, of course), when the older witch interrupted.

“Mary, it’s me,” she said, winking and changing that eye from brown to blue. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, Tonks.”

“It’s no problem! Good to know I fit in alright with the muggles, you know,” she replied cheerfully.

“Emma, Dan, Maia! Tonks is here!” Mary called. When she looked back, the witch had transfigured her coat back to a robe. She winced. “I should have mentioned – you can’t do magic here. Maia got a nasty letter last summer because someone did a summoning charm – not one of us,” she hastened to add. “A visitor.”

But Tonks’ mood was unflappable. “Shouldn’t be a problem – wotcha, Maia!” she broke off, as the Grangers appeared. “Hi, Emma, Dan! Good to see you again.”

“Hi, Tonks. What shouldn’t be a problem?” Hermione asked, as Emma herded the lot of them toward the family room.

“Oh, I was just telling Mary, I had a poke around, before I came in. Your wards are quite good. As long as you don’t make a magical disturbance large enough to spread beyond them, the Muggleborn Alert sensors shouldn’t pick up anything unusual.”

“We can do magic?” Hermione asked, sounding slightly outraged.

Tonks nodded. “I mean, no. Don’t. Underage use of magic is dangerous, and you shouldn’t do so unsupervised, even though your wards will stop anyone official from noticing,” she said in a rather droning voice, then snapped back to normal. “Did Bill Weasley do them up for you? He always was a dab hand at making the magical currents flow normally around a ward system. I wouldn’t have guessed there was a magical property here until I was about two houses down.”

“He did,” Dan said excitedly. “And Devon Troy helped work out how to keep the electricity working without spoiling things. We’ve even got phone lines running through. It’s really very interesting stuff, wardcrafting!”

Tonks pulled a face. “Enchanting never was my cup of tea, I’m afraid. Always liked a bit more adventure than ward-crafters are likely to get. Never thought Bill had it in him to go off curse-breaking,” she sighed. “ _Anyway_ ,” she pulled a flexible strip of leather with a knife-hilt sticking out of it from her pocket and handed it to Mary. “There you are! Bit scuffed up, but it should be fine. I can help you tune it, if you like, but you shouldn’t probably be throwing it, anyway, and Flitwick’ll skin you if you channel power into it in Dueling Club, so it’s not _that_ important.”

“Tune it?” Mary asked, just as Hermione said, “Channel power?”

Emma laughed. “Have a seat, Tonks. I have a feeling this is going to be a long discussion.”

“Not _that_ long,” Hermione protested, but they all sat regardless.

“You, ah… _do_ know what you _do_ with a dueling knife, don’t you?” the metamorph asked warily, looking from one curious face to the next.

Mary shook her head. “Neville – Longbottom, that is – said that I should look into getting one. Something about versatility at close quarters? I was planning to ask when I went to the armory he suggested, but…”

“Oh, right! Well. Okay. Been a while since I’ve had this speech. I got to skip it when we were doing weapons training, on account of I’ve been fighting since I was about seven. I guess if I skip something and it doesn’t make sense, ask, and I’ll go back, eh?”

The others nodded, and Tonks’ face slowly shifted back to its natural shape as she focused on explaining the use of the weapon. She held out a hand for it, and Mary reluctantly passed it back.

“This is a dueling sheath,” the auror trainee said, stripping the leather from the blade. It looked as if she was pulling the eight-inch strip of polished metal out of nowhere. “It’s worn so the handle or hilt is on the inside of the forearm, hilt toward the palm. It goes on your wand arm, and your wand goes on your off-arm, so you can do a cross-draw, like this,” she said, demonstrating. “The dueling sheath is enchanted to protect the blade. It’s stored in kind of a little pocket in space so it doesn’t hinder your movements, and it’s not affected by magic when it’s sheathed. It’s very, very important that you never take an un-sheathed dueling blade through the floo. The enchantments will react badly with the alchemy, and probably explode.”

“Okay, the sheath is _very important_ ,” Mary said, exchanging a wide-eyed look with the Grangers. “Got it.”

Tonks nodded. “Second thing. You can’t wear it anywhere other than sanctioned dueling events, unless you’ve got a license, and you can’t get one until you’re seventeen. Same as for proper wand-holsters, it’s considered a concealed weapon, but the penalties are worse for a knife, because everyone’s _expected_ to have a wand on them _somewhere_. Third thing. This particular knife has concealing enchantments on the hilt, so if you do wear it under clothing, it won’t affect the overlying cloth. That’s illegal. So don’t get caught wearing it with long sleeves.”

Emma snorted. Dan looked appalled. “Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of law enforcement officer?” he asked.

“I am,” Tonks agreed, clearly not offended in the least. “You can’t buy them like that. Well, I could, or a Hit Wizard, but most anyone couldn’t. Except they were only made illegal about fifteen years back, because of the war. As long as she doesn’t wear it under long sleeves, there’s no apparent difference between that and any other blade. And she doesn’t have any reason to be wearing it outside of a dueling tournament at all, _right_?” The last word was clearly directed at Mary, along with a hard look.

She nodded quickly. “Definitely. I’ll be good, promise!”

“I don’t know that I like giving children concealed weapons, anyway,” Dan grumbled.

“ _Daniel_ ,” Emma said sharply. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I _know_ we have, _Emma_ , but there’s no Second Amendment here, and even if there was, Beth is _thirteen_.”

“I was shooting when I was _five_ , Dan. The girls are plenty old enough to understand the need to be careful.”

Dan looked over at the young witches (both of whom were nodding frantically), and sighed. “That doesn’t mean I _like_ it,” he grumbled.

“Besides, Dad, our wands are _way_ more dangerous than any knife,” Hermione said, obviously failing in her attempt to be helpful.

“I know that, sweetie, and it’s not reassuring in the least,” her father said, ruffling her damp curls.

Tonks looked at the adults hesitantly before she asked, “Shall I go on?”

Dan sighed and nodded. “Best have all the safety information up-front.”

“Yeah, well… Anyway. The illegal thing also includes if you wear it on your ankle or thigh or anywhere else under your clothes. Just don’t. Like Dan said, I _am_ going to be an auror, and it’ll look pretty shitty for all of us if you get caught with an illegal knife I gave you.

“Next thing is tuning. You do, or _can_ , use magic directed through a dueling blade. It’s not really _spellcasting_ , though. It’s basically channeling your intent and your power into the blade to enhance its natural properties. It’s technically dark magic, and it’s not allowed in IDC duels. But if you ever get in a real fight for your life, it can make the difference. If you want to learn, I can teach you over the summer.”

“I’ll think about it,” Mary said, with a quick look at the still-moody Dan. She was almost positive that that sounded like something she did want to learn, though.

“Right, well. That’s one thing tuning is good for. Wands have their own magical frequency, that has to match your magic in order to work properly. Knives have to be specifically brought into alignment with your own magic to channel it efficiently, usually once a year, unless you’re using it all the time. If you are, that will keep the alignment attuned to you. The other thing is, when you tune your knife, you create a sort of bond between it and you, which makes it _much_ easier to summon it wandlessly, say, for example, if you get disarmed or throw it at an opponent. Which is dumb and flashy. I don’t recommend it.” The young auror flushed slightly, and Mary wondered if there was a story there.

“I think we can skip that, for today, then,” she decided.

“I’ll re-tune it to myself, then, so you can’t channel anything accidentally,” Tonks said, pricking a finger and tracing several runes down the blade. The runes sank into the metal, and the blade glowed darkly for a moment.

Tonks acted as though this was perfectly normal, though Hermione’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and Emma asked, “Is it supposed to look so…?”

“Creepy? Not always. New ones will glow brighter, but they get darker the more times they’re tuned. This one is a couple hundred years old. It was my mother’s Aunt Walburga’s before it was hers, so _don’t_ get it confiscated,” she said sternly to Mary, albeit with a smile.

“Are you sure you want to lend it to me?” she asked hesitantly.

Tonks just shrugged. “You’re as much a Black as I am, and I have others that are more in line with my style. I like a bit more curve to the blade,” she explained, sketching a slightly different shape with her hands against the straight edges of the one resting on her knees.

“Oh! Speaking of Lizzie being a Black,” Hermione interrupted. “Do you know what Bellatrix Lestrange looked like?”

Tonks was briefly thrown. “Um… sure. Why?”

“Case of mistaken identity at St. Mungo’s,” Mary explained, flushing slightly, and wishing Hermione would shut up.

“I was just wondering if the resemblance really is as strong as people say,” the older girl shrugged, nodding at Mary.

The metamorph laughed. “I can see it. The structure of the cheekbones, nose, and forehead is similar, but Bellatrix’s eyes and chin are different.” She shifted her own face to demonstrate, the cheeks becoming a little thinner, eyes a little deeper-set, an almost-invisible dusting of freckles fading away. Her irises, normally one blue and one green, grew deeper in shade, from blue through purple, until they were dark enough that Mary couldn’t see the pupil. “Let’s see,” she muttered. “I think she used to wear her hair like _this_ ,” riotous, black curls were whipped up with a flick of a charm, “but she’d never be caught _dead_ in _this_ …” Tonks’ bright blue overrobe and wildly patterned tunic were transfigured to resemble a corset over a loose-sleeved, plain, black blouse. “Oh, and by the time she was my age, she was already a Death Eater.” She cast an illusion on her left arm, a skull with a snake emerging from its mouth. The entire process, from start to finish, took less than a minute. She glowered at the other three for a few seconds, then grinned. “Mad-Eye, my mentor in the Aurors, you know, he said I’m pretty spot-on until I open my mouth,” she laughed, apparently oblivious to the shock the others were expressing in regard to the transformation. “Of course, that was _after_ he nearly cursed me through a wall, so I don’t prank him anymore.”

“Could you switch back?” Mary asked. She was finding it _highly_ uncanny, sitting across from the face of an infamous Death Eater who could be her older sister.

Tonks obliged, returning to her usual face and cancelling the illusion of the tattoo, though she left her clothes transfigured.

“Does that hurt?” Hermione asked. “I got turned half-cat with Polyjuice once, and it was really painful.”

“Feels a bit _weird_ ,” Tonks admitted. “But I wouldn’t say it’s really _painful_. It’s more like the animagus transformation than a potion or curse transformation. Self-transfiguration, you know? But _anyway_ , well… I’ve completely forgotten what I was going to say. Want a demonstration of how a real knife-fight goes?”

“Yes!” Mary said at once, then turned to the adults. “Can we? Please?”

Emma shrugged and looked to Dan. He sighed. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to see what the kids are going to be learning eventually. In the garden, maybe?” he suggested.

Tonks laughed. “It’s just illusion – I couldn’t really show you in person without a decent partner, but yeah, if we go outside, I can scale it up.”

Hermione led the way out onto the back porch, and Tonks set to weaving an elaborate construct, semi-transparent, and obviously only about half-scale, if the size of the people were anything to go by, even taking up most of the garden. Two witches, one of them a much younger-looking Tonks, faced off in the middle of a large, circular platform. “This is from the summer of ’86,” Tonks explained. “So I would’ve been thirteen. The other girl is Jas Neikopf. She’s a couple years older than me, on the European Dueling Circuit, now.”

The witches bowed, drawing their weapons, and circled for a few long moments, casting spells until it became clear that Tonks was far outmatched when it came to wandwork. She dodged two curses, and closed the distance between them with a duck and roll. Mary gasped. She didn’t know if _she_ could pull that off, and she was _way_ more coordinated than Tonks, most of the time.

But apparently when she was focusing on a fight, Tonks was much more sure of herself. Illusion-Tonks deflected a slice toward her unprotected wand-arm, batting it away almost casually and letting the sharp metal slide past her as she turned, effortlessly, and struck at the other girl’s midsection. Neikopf leapt back, putting enough distance between them that she could use her wand again.

The duel progressed slowly in a similar vein for nearly five minutes, with Tonks, younger than Mary, she realized, shielding and dodging, hardly bothering to send any curses, and focusing on closing the distance between the girls, and Neikopf doing everything she could to keep the younger, smaller girl away. Mary had to say, on the whole, despite the fact that Tonks was using more defensive spells, Neikopf seemed to be _moving_ more defensively. The reason why became clear near the five-minute mark, as Tonks managed to duck under her guard and stab the older girl deeply in the right knee. She fell, unable to support herself, but still fighting, sending spell after spell to drive the young Tonks off.

Still, with her mobility hampered, it was only a matter of time until Tonks reduced her to holding a shield, closing in with her knife and casting bright-red stunning spells to keep her opponent from doing anything other than keeping her shield in place. When she was close enough, she abandoned the stunners and started carving into the shield itself, her blade glowing blue as it bit into the magical barrier. Just when it seemed that the shield was about to cave, flickering around the edges, Tonks stopped. Neikopf dropped her spell, sweating and shaking, and Tonks helped her to her feet.

“What happened at the end, there?” Dan asked, as the real Tonks dispersed the illusion. He was obviously interested, despite his reluctance to see the girls taught to fight.

“Jasmin surrendered. Cutting that shield open is what it looks like when you’re channeling magic through the blade. You’re enhancing the basic properties of the knife: in that case, its ability to cut through things, which wouldn’t normally include magic. Not that you’d be doing anything quite so drastic at Hogwarts. This was at an outside gym.”

“That was _awesome_!” Mary enthused. Hermione’s eyes were bright and interested as well, and the Slytherin was certain her friend was about to let loose with a veritable flood of questions, but before she could, Tonks spoke up again.

“Bloody hell, I’ve got to get going. Plans for tea. Owl me, though, yeah? Closer to the summer, and we’ll set up a time for me to show you a few tricks!”

The younger witch agreed wholeheartedly. She didn’t even care about the power-channeling: she just wanted to learn how to move like _that_.

###  Monday, 3 January 1994

#### Wizengamot Chambers, Ministry of Magic, London

The day after Tonks’ visit marked the beginning of the last event Mary had planned for herself over the Yule holiday: attending the first Wizengamot session of the year. She floo’d from the Grangers’ to the Urquharts’ in time to join the Urquharts for dinner on Sunday, and spent the hours between the end of the meal and bed catching up with Catherine.

There was little of note that she had not included in her letters, but the older girl did give her a stern talking-to about rejecting the opportunity presented by Daphne’s tea parties. Apparently Lilian had taken her sarcastic comment to the effect that she and Catherine should just run Mary’s life slightly too seriously, and had owled the Urquhart witch asking her to intercede on Lilian and Daphne’s behalf. Enough time had passed for Mary to admit that she had, perhaps, overreacted, and that she should apologize and continue to attend the ‘networking events’ – or at least she decided it had after nearly an hour of disappointed lecturing on the advantages of making such connections. She agreed to at least ‘make an effort to repair [her] damaged relationship with House Greengrass’ once they had all returned to school, just so Catherine would let it go. Thankfully, that worked, and the conversation turned to more pleasant topics, such as Slytherin’s reception to her patronage of Dave (as yet unchallenged since September, which Mary was quite frankly becoming suspicious of, since she knew there were those who did not approve, and their quiet could mean nothing good) and the possible origins of the mysterious Firebolt.

On Monday morning, she rose bright and early and, with the assistance of one of the Urquhart house-elves, donned the fancy robes the Urquharts had bought for her birthday, so many months before. The elf, Rubie, styled her hair, using some powerful elven magic to render it perfectly straight and biddable – at least long enough to be elaborately braided and pinned into place. By the time she was ready to go, she hardly recognized the strange and exotic young woman in the mirror, with her shifting robes, hair coiled like a nest of tamed serpents, and a hint of a proper figure, under the influence of the corset. She tried not to let the fact that she looked more like the dancing photo of Bellatrix Black than her usual self take away from the fact that she actually looked _really good_.

Catherine was apparently anticipating her makeover (if one could call it a makeover when there was no makeup involved), because she snapped a photo of Mary before the younger girl had even descended the main stair. She nearly turned an ankle in her heels at the flash, but her tutor was entirely unapologetic. She demanded another, proper picture once they reached the dining room, and Mary obliged, on the condition that she received a copy, for the benefit of all those like Hermione who thought she never dressed up. Who knew when she would be so well put-together again?

The teen was unable to eat much, sitting uncomfortably upright at the edge of her chair, partly out of fear for her clothes, partly due to the corset, and partly because, when faced with the prospect of spending the entire day in Lord Urquhart’s company, her appetite had fled.

All the fun of fancy clothes and taking photos aside, she was distinctly nervous about making what was very obviously intended to be a public appearance, and doing so escorted by an intimidating old man whom she had never spoken more than a handful of words to directly. Catherine said that it was nothing to worry about, but Mary couldn’t shake the fear that she was about to embarrass herself or the Urquharts in some irredeemable way.

Nevertheless, she followed the stolid old wizard, equally well dressed, into the floo, as expected. They made their way through the bustling Ministry Atrium and a tangled, maze-like warren of corridors on the second floor to the small office that was, apparently, his, or possibly the Urquhart family’s (she didn’t care to speak up and ask). They laid off their outer robes there (the ones that protected their _proper_ robes from the soot and bustle of traveling), and then, much as Neville had escorted her through his family’s house, Lord Urquhart escorted her into the Chamber of Governance.

“Steady on,” he murmured to her as they found the box that was the Urquharts’ ‘seat,’ for which she gave him a grateful smile.

The Chamber of Governance was a large, five-sided room, though not a proper pentagram. One wall was long and straight, and the other four created a sort of half-circle around it. The 139 Seats were arranged in seven tiers, with eight in the first tier (two per side), and more for every one higher. The Urquharts’, as one of the oldest houses outside of the three remaining Most Ancient Houses, was in the second tier. House Potter was somewhere in the fourth tier, according to Lord Urquhart. The tiered Seats surrounded a small, semi-circular stage, the Floor, which had a floating lectern situated near one of the empty Ancient Seats. There was a large chair off to one side of the Floor, and a row of desks along the back wall, only three of which were occupied.

Only about 110 of the seats were active at the moment, but that was still an awful lot of wizards, especially since nearly every booth had more than one occupant (most had three or four) and there was, as Professor McGonagall had noted, a small press section, on the opposite side of the Floor from the desk. Mary spotted the Malfoys’ distinctive, blond hair at the far end of the fifth tier, and Professor McGonagall waved at her (discreetly) from the McGonagall Seat in the third, somewhat nearer. There were a number of other teens present, but no one Mary knew particularly well.

Zacharias Smith was a few Seats down. He gave her a cocky smirk and a nod before bending his head to listen to something a very short witch was telling him. His grandmother or great-grandmother, perhaps. Susan Bones was in the first tier, off to the Urquharts’ left, with her aunt Amelia, the head of Magical Law Enforcement. She looked incredibly bored. Mary knew that she was technically the head of her House in the same way Mary was, and wondered if she had been to one of these things before. Neville was in the first tier as well, with his grandmother in her ridiculous hat. _He_ looked just as terrified as she felt, and uncomfortable in his dress robes.

A clock somewhere began to strike the hour (ten), and Dumbledore, the Chief Warlock, paraded onto the Floor to call the session to order. In striking contrast to his Welcome Feast Speeches, it was a rather lengthy, droning performance. There was something formulaic about the antiquated phrasing that made Mary suspect he _couldn’t_ just say something like ‘harpsichord, terrycloth, capital, let’s get on with it.’ All in all, as silly as that would be, she thought she would have preferred it to taking a full five minutes to say ‘Welcome back, I hope you’ve all had a good holiday. There’s not much on the agenda for the day, but we will address that in a moment. Now the Secretary will take roll for the Minutes.’

A fussy-looking old wizard with a monocle took his place on the Floor, and Dumbledore settled himself into the chair, looking for all the world as though he was ready to take a nap. Mary soon felt like taking a nap herself, as the Roll was called to establish a quorum:

“Who stands as representative for the Most Ancient House of Black?”

“Mr. Blake Wilkes, duly appointed solicitor and proxy for Madam Walburga, Acting Head of House Black, Mr. Secretary!”

“Noted. Who stands as representative for the Most Ancient House of Bones?”

“The Honorable Amelia Bones, Regent and proxy for Heir Ascendant Miss Susan Bones, Mr. Secretary.”

“Noted. Who stands as representative for the Most Ancient House of Longbottom?”

“Madam Augusta Longbottom, Regent and proxy for Heir Ascendant Master Neville Longbottom, Mr. Secretary.”

On and on it went. Mary noted that “Mr. Angus McGonagall, proxy for Heir Ascendant Miss Mary Potter,” would be casting her vote, and wondered if she might be able to meet him at some point. She knew that he was Professor McGonagall’s brother, and he had sent her a brief note welcoming her back to the magical world ages ago, but she had never spoken to him.

After the last of the Seats had announced their representatives, the Secretary turned to the Representative of the Ministry of Magic (Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, Dolores Umbridge), the Official Scribe (Willow Tomlin, Head of the Ministry Department of Records), and introduced himself (Wizengamot Secretary and Master of Order, Jonathan Buchanan) before turning the Floor back over to the Chief Warlock.

Dumbledore proceeded to list the topics on the agenda. They ranged from boring (Proposal to Discuss the Formation of a Committee to Consult on the Safety of Magical Minors in the Care of Public Institutions in Magical Britain, the United Kingdom, and Ireland) to _deadly_ boring (Recognition of Transfers of Lordship since the Conclusion of Previous Session). The only one that Mary thought sounded interesting at all was the “Report on Progress of the Construction of the Quidditch World Cup Stadium,” and it was scheduled for the very end of the day, right before “Concluding Remarks.”

There was very little Old Business to address – just another vote on an apparently ongoing debate about a law to restrict access to healing texts. The Representative from House Grey spoke on the necessity for not only fully licensed healers, but healers in training, midwives, and anyone who wanted to practice first-aid to have access to such texts, making the argument that such a restriction was tantamount to forcing the public to use St. Mungo’s for the most basic of injuries. The Representative from House Abbott argued that the knowledge contained in most healing texts was too dangerous for the general public to have access to, making the argument that there is a reason Healers are bound by oath not to abuse their knowledge and power. The Representative from House Burke essentially called that dragon-shite, presenting the full Healer’s Oaths, and pointing out that there was nothing in there about not using their knowledge when it came to anyone _other than_ patients. The Representative from House Macmillan suggested that perhaps the Healer’s Oaths ought to be changed, then, and Dumbledore cut off her speech, noting that that would be a new item to submit for the following session’s agenda.

The Chief Warlock called for a vote regarding the law (“Should Proposed Legislative Act 1993-08-05-01, otherwise known as Menken’s Law, be passed into the corpus of legislation, thereby restricting access to healing texts to those who have taken the Healer’s Oath?”), and the Secretary officially recognized the votes. ‘Nay’ won by too-slim a margin to dismiss the proposed law, resulting in its being set aside until the following session as well, so that both sides could prepare new arguments.

After that, there was a break for lunch, and Mary was allowed to mingle with her fellow overdressed teens around a refreshment table. She exchanged formal greetings with Susan and Neville, but then went to try to talk to Angus McGonagall. She found him chatting with the Professor in a side-room, and they welcomed her warmly, the Professor practically purring over how well-turned-out she was, and Angus eager to discuss his management of her family’s votes. Apparently he had read through the voting records of Charlus and James Potter (meager though the latter were), and was doing his best to keep true to the principles that seemed to have guided their hands, which Mary supposed was everything she could have asked for, though she was a bit uncomfortable when the conversation turned to the healing text issue – Angus had voted _aye_ , while she thought she would have voted _nay_. Still, she was willing to concede that she had only heard one round of a debate which had apparently been going on for months, and therefore said nothing.

After lunch, the two Lords and one Lady who had taken over their family seats over the holiday introduced themselves to the Chamber. Mary did her best to pay attention, because she knew that she would have to do the same in just a few short years, but their speeches were incredibly florid and, Mary felt, deliberately obfuscating. Lord Schelling was obviously a Traditionalist, but she couldn’t make heads nor tails of the other two. She _did_ catch that Lord Westin intended to use the same proxy as his father had done, so his house’s vote was unlikely to change.

The proposal she had expected to be boring, for the formation of a committee to consult on magical minors’ health and safety, actually ended up being anything but. The long, dull item title on the agenda had effectively disguised the fact that it addressed at least one issue she felt rather strongly about: the way magical orphans were raised. She thought she would have been much better off throughout her childhood if there had been some sort of system in place to check up on her. It _also_ applied to addressing student safety standards at Hogwarts, which, given her experiences there in the past two and a half years, she thought were rather lacking. She was sure there was some sort of ulterior motive, since the proposal was put forth by Lady Malfoy, but she didn’t think it necessarily would address muggleborns who still lived with their families, so whatever that motive was, it probably wasn’t anything to do with Emma or IMP. The blonde witch argued the necessity of the formation of such a committee with a surprising degree of passion, and as no one could refuse to participate without essentially voting against the wellbeing of magical children, the proposal passed, to the obvious irritation of the Headmaster.

Amelia Bones made a speech as the Head of the DMLE requesting the Wizengamot overrule the Minister’s Emergency Order to place Dementors around Hogwarts, citing unsolicited attacks by the creatures on two residents of Hogsmeade and one stray muggle tourist who had been out for a day-hike to see the “ruined” castle. Her aurors, she said, were now more occupied keeping the bloody demons in check than with looking for Sirius Black. But they needed a four-fifths majority to overturn an Emergency Order, and they only managed three-quarters or so of the assembled voters. There didn’t seem to be any patterning to those who insisted the thrice-cursed creatures stay in place, either. Some of them even had miserable teenagers sitting beside them, their votes no doubt cast to ‘protect’ those same children they were dooming to another cold, wretchedly depressing term.

The report on the progress of the World Cup stadium was decidedly unenlightening, though it was, at least, less traumatically dull and long-winded than many of the other points of the agenda had been. The reason for this was simple: it was presented by a no-nonsense young arithmancer, who discussed the finances and wizarding resources, and a dowdy, straightforward business-witch, whose company was overseeing the actual construction, rather than a politician. Everything was, apparently, going exactly as expected, and the stadium would be completed on schedule, ready to accommodate a hundred thousand rabid Quidditch fans from around the world come August.

Lord Urquhart shook his head at this, muttering about the sheer lunacy of inviting literally ten times the population of Magical Britain within the boundaries of the nation, and prophesying dire logistical problems, but Mary was excited. If she had her way, she would _definitely_ be one of those hundred thousand in the stands.

The Assembly was dismissed by five in the afternoon, to reconvene in two weeks’ time, and Lord Urquhart escorted Mary back to the Mansion. By that point, she was almost more preoccupied by the pain in her feet and her lower back than concerned about the chance she might make a fool of herself and her hosts, which probably helped her finish out the day without bollixing anything up at the last second. Well, she did actually get a heel stuck on exiting the floo, but by then she was safely out of the public view, so she still considered it a win.

On the whole, she considered it a horrid affair, on par with attending tea parties with her peers, if not precisely the same (hosting a tea party for the Professor—and Hermione—had actually been quite enjoyable, especially once the Firebolt revelation had broken the formality). She returned to the Grangers’ with her photo, which Catherine had had developed over the course of the day, rather relieved that it was over, and looking forward to going back to her low-key muggle holiday.

It was not until Hermione, practically bouncing in anticipation, met her in the floo shed that Mary recalled she had promised to recount the meeting in every detail.

###  Friday, 7 January 1994

#### Hogwarts

##### Albus Dumbledore

“I believe that concludes our pre-term conference,” Albus announced, clapping his hands lightly over the sound of his staff’s frustrated muttering.

“I still can’t believe there’s nothing else that can be done about the dementors,” Minerva grumbled.

Albus sighed. “Miss Amelia and I gave it our best shot, but alas… unless I were to go so far as accusing the Ministry of putting the school under siege, I’m afraid there are no other options.”

“Feels like being under siege,” Pomona said, with a degree of snark worthy of Severus.

Aurora laughed aloud. “Write them an open letter, Mona. Wasn’t Fudge one of yours?”

“You know perfectly well he was one of Slughorn’s just as much as you were, missy.”

“I prefer to think I’m one of Snape’s,” the Astronomy professor said, batting her eyes at the wizard who had taken over her house in her NEWT years in a parody of flirtation. Pomona ignored her, following Minerva and Rolonda out of the staff room.

“Detention, Sinistra, my office, after class,” Severus drawled mockingly, but Albus could see a hint of suppressed amusement.

“You two are disgusting,” Septima informed the apparently on-again couple. “What are D’Onofrio and Grubblyplank going to think?” She nodded down the table at their new colleagues, who were chatting obliviously with Filius, Poppy and Remus.

“They say transgression is the root of humor,” the Astronomy professor smirked. “Snape has no sense of humor, therefore it follows that he has no inclination toward transgression, correct?”

“Why am I friends with you, you illogical heathen?”

“Because sometimes I indulge your need for mindless girl-talk?” Aurora suggested, then went on in a slightly higher, more girlish voice: “What do you think of Marzio, Tima? I fancy he’s quite attractive in that reedy intellectual way.”

Septima laughed. “You might have competition, Snape. Fair warning.”

“I shall endeavor to suppress my anxiety regarding the insecurity of our mutual friend’s fickle affections,” the Potions Master quipped, excusing himself from the witches’ conversation by alerting Remus to their impending meeting. “Lupin! A word before you run off to examine whatever useless creature you’ve brought into the castle _now_.”

“Come on, Aurora, before he decides to poison you.” Septima began dragging the younger witch bodily toward the door.

“Again? Has he said something to you?”

“Again? He’s poisoned you _before_?”

The witches were out of Albus’ earshot before Aurora responded, which was a pity, for he found himself intensely curious about that particular nugget of staff gossip. He hadn’t noticed Aurora having been poisoned...

“Is Aurora a masochist?” Remus asked Severus as the others of his little group filtered out. “She doesn’t seem the type, but she _is_ in some sort of twisted little relationship with _you_ , so, you know, I can’t help but wonder…”

“Much as I would _love_ to regale you with tales of my sexual exploits,” Severus said, in a tone Albus recognized as the one reserved for messing with his fellow professors’ heads. “I find that it is infinitely more amusing to me to leave you… unsatisfied. Much like Ms. Burbage.”

Remus growled under his breath. “Watch it, Snape! You’re still on thin ice with me after that stunt you pulled back in November!”

“…he says as though his paltry influence should convince me to consider his opinion.” Remus was several inches taller than Severus, and broader across the shoulders, but that did not stop the smaller wizard invading the werewolf’s personal space.

Thankfully Sybil, the last of the other professors to vacate the staff room, departed at that moment, so Albus was free to call up the privacy wards and head off the inevitable explosion.

“ _Severus_ ,” he said forbiddingly. The dark professor turned away from his posturing with a flourish of robes, alighting on the arm of his usual chair, rather catlike in his projected ‘this is what I intended all along’ attitude.

“ _Dumbledore_ ,” he mimicked.

“What is all this about?” Remus asked, pulling together a professional façade with obvious effort.

Albus smiled benignly at him. “I just thought that you might be interested to know that we have finished adjusting the wards to take into account the information you shared with us regarding Mr. Black’s animagus form. The wards will now prevent dogs from moving in and out of the castle.”

“Just dogs? Why not block animagi entirely?”

“Minerva,” Severus pointed out succinctly, though that was not the reason.

“She could be added as an exception, couldn’t she?”

Albus shook his head. “There is no feasible way to add a ward to detect an animagus in human form, and simply blocking all animals would hinder our feline population’s movements in a way that I’m sure would quickly make the castle unbearable for its human residents.”

“But he can still use his dog form to get onto the grounds, and then enter the school in human form, couldn’t he?”

“Indeed,” Severus drawled. “Thus rendering the waste of half my holiday nearly irrelevant, but our illustrious Headmaster has never been inclined to attend to my analyses of predicted costs versus theoretical benefits.”

“Why is he even here, sir?” Remus asked, avoiding addressing his colleague directly.

Albus settled into one of his trademark conjured armchairs, and opened his mouth to speak, but Severus beat him to it.

“I am here because Salazar Slytherin was a paranoid bastard and included a key in the fundamental array for the school wards such that they cannot be altered without the conscious participation of the Head of Slytherin, thus I am to be involved in this farce regardless, and may as well be so from the beginning.” He smiled cruelly. “I am _also_ here because I am a far better legilimens than the Headmaster. I may not be able to enter your mind without your knowledge, but I _assure_ you, I _can_ divine whether you are attempting to… hold back any… pertinent information. _Again_.”

“ _Enough_ , Severus. You are _not_ here to further your ridiculous, juvenile feud!” Albus snapped, glaring at the young professor. “If you cannot remain civil, I will have to ask you to leave, despite your concerns for Miss Potter’s protection.”

He immediately regretted losing his temper, but even he was not immune to the effects of the dementors. Between their continued presence around the Castle and the passage of the Allied Dark’s latest damnable proposal on Monday, he was in a rather poor mood, and Severus’ attitude was not improving matters.

The dark wizard resisted his authority for a long moment, but eventually dipped his head in submission.

“Remus,” Albus went on, more kindly. “I simply must ask you again whether there is _anything_ else – _anything at all_ – that might be helpful in apprehending Black. Any favored haunts around Hogsmeade? Anywhere he might have felt safe lying low? Any way you know of that he might be able to enter the Castle – even if you suspect we already know of it. Goodness knows I still, on occasion, am surprised by the secrets this old building hides, and on the off chance that you are aware of something I am not…”

Remus looked from him to Severus and back again before he sighed, and began to speak. With only a few pointed prods from the Potions Master, he told them of the Marauders’ adventures in the Shrieking Shack, the caves above Hogsmeade, and their explorations of the Forest, on both sides of the ward-line. He told them of his knowledge of the seven passages leading off the Grounds, and the thirteen passages from the Castle to the Grounds and the Forest, aside from the numerous openly recognized side-doors. He told them of a rather ingenious Map, drawing information from the wards, and a clever little self-replicating enchantment to create an accurate representation of the ever-shifting structure of the school. He even reminded them that there was a possibility Black was nowhere near the school, and had, perhaps, chosen to run after his failed attempt on the Tower, either to the old site of the Potter Manor, where he had once taken refuge from his family, or leaving the country entirely.

Unfortunately, none of this information was likely to be of much assistance. None of them truly believed that Sirius Black, one of the most stubborn, obsessive men they had ever met, would abandon any quest he had managed to fixate upon in his dementor-addled state, and in any case, the Potter Manor was long-since razed, a casualty of the War. The Shrieking Shack had been the first place he and Severus had checked after it became apparent that Black had escaped the Grounds, and there had been no signs that the structure had been inhabited since the ‘70s. The dementors had searched the entire area of Hogsmeade for several miles in every direction, including the caves.

The only realistic place for the fugitive to be hiding was the Forest. It had its own wards, of course, but they were oriented toward keeping dark creatures contained, not detecting individuals within their boundaries. The school’s treaty with the centaurs forbade more invasive magical surveillance, and they had their own methods to counter attempts at scrying within their territory. Albus truly _hoped_ that Black was hiding out in that area. The only alternative explanation he could think of for why the wards would not recognize him, even in animagus form, were he still on the Grounds, would be if his sense of identity and personhood had been so eroded by dementor exposure that he had ‘lost his Name.’

One of the classic (and most horrifyingly dark) experiments in applied magical theory, from the early days of its systematic examination, involved carefully removing a wizard’s capacity for rational thought, his memories, and his knowledge of himself, then testing the effects of this treatment on spells that depended on a sense of fundamental identity to take effect. (So much evil had been done in the effort to find what made a man human.) One of the conclusions had been that if a man cannot know himself – if he has no sapience – his fundamental identity is broken. He will not return to his natural shape if transfigured. He cannot cross the boundaries between planes intact. His name is no longer associated with his blood or his magic. _Identity_ , the researchers famously stated, is not only a matter of biology. Their findings were hailed as Proof of the Soul.

No one knew what ten years and more in the presence of dementors would do to a man – there were a scarce dozen prisoners who had lived so long among them – but common wisdom (supposition following from the connection between memory and sapience publicized by the Soul Experiment and the sensations experienced after relatively short terms in the presence of dementors) suggested that they stripped a man’s memories from him, from the happiest to the most vile, taking his identity with them, reducing him slowly to a soulless husk of his former self, a slower version of the Kiss. Before the effect was complete, he would become a mindless creature, capable only of the most negative memories and emotions, more dangerous, perhaps, than ever. 

Not only was slow de-soul-ment a fate not to be wished upon anyone, but it also meant that there was the possibility that Albus could not depend on the school wards to recognize if and when he crossed them. And regardless, he could not insert a trigger into that recognition to alert him automatically if Black _did_ cross the wards without potentially destabilizing a thousand years of accumulated additions laid on top of those fundamental boundary lines. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the Marauders had interrupted one or more of the non-essential enchantments when they inserted their probe to create their Map (but those were always wearing out, breaking down, or interfering with each other anyway).

In any case, the Headmaster already had access to that same information, he just had to look for it. He was also aware of the passages in and out of the school, and a visual representation would hardly be helpful, even if Remus did have the Map in his possession anymore, or know where it was, which Severus’ legilimency confirmed he did not, despite his suspicious hesitation at that question. It seemed that the former Marauder had brought him the only piece of information that would, possibly, be useful, of his own accord, so many weeks ago. He left the meeting when Albus dismissed him, looking back at the two men with a hint of betrayal, but Albus couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty.

If, after all, the werewolf had brought him the intelligence regarding Black’s animagus form at the beginning of the year, when he had first asked whether there was _anything_ he knew that might help them to keep the students safe, they might have kept the escaped prisoner out of the school entirely. But then, he should have known better than to trust a Defense Professor, he thought bitterly, even if Remus _had_ been one of his favorite Gryffindors, once upon a time. After all, Black had been as well.

Severus’ harsh glare and snotty, “Earth to Dumbledore,” recalled him from his brooding thoughts.

“Yes, my dear boy?” he answered, in the tone he knew irritated the prickly young wizard more than any other.

“I _asked_ whether you intended to inform the Ministry of this new development, in order to aid their hunt for Black,” the Slytherin (apparently) repeated himself.

Albus felt his eyes narrow as he responded. “No. And neither shall you, nor Mr. Lupin. _Hogwarts_ will apprehend the fugitive, if he is in our territory, _not_ the Ministry. It would only encourage them to further meddling in the affairs of the school, and worse – to loose those blighted creatures of darkness across the island with ever-more-tenuous excuses.”

Whatever Severus might have thought of his reasoning was hidden behind flat, dark eyes, but he nodded without hesitation.

“I have a duty to keep the students safe, Severus,” the Headmaster sighed heavily. “And I do fear that the Ministry will become a greater threat to us in the coming years than Sirius Black, by far.”

The younger wizard scoffed at his melancholy musings. “In thirteen years of working for you, I have never _once_ seen you fear for the _students_. Not that I care that the Great Albus Dumbledore is as human as the next politician, but if you’re going to lie to my face, you could at least have the decency to make it _believable._ ”

Albus stared, taken aback, after the swirl of black cloth and insubordination stalking away.

What the hell was _that_ supposed to mean?

 


	26. The Consequences of Judicious Meddling

###  Saturday, 8 January 1994

#### The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Cornwall

##### Peter Pettigrew

There was a loud crash, and a small explosion from the floor below that where Peter was curled up on the pillow of the boy he had lived with for the past two and a half years. He flinched, and curled himself into a smaller ball as the boy’s mother’s incredibly loud, incredibly shrill voice shrieked up the stairwell, reprimanding her middle children for trying to blow up the house. (Again.) Ron just sighed loudly, looking up briefly from his last-minute efforts to complete his holiday homework, and muttered, “Bloody arseholes. I swear to God, if they blow up my room…”

Two voices echoed, “Sorry, mum!” just enough out of sync for the harpy to know that both of them _had_ answered.

Peter relaxed slightly, knowing that they would keep things quiet, now, at least for a little while, planning pranks or mischief until their mother’s temper waned. Then the experiments would start again. Explosions shaking the house, threatening its fragile stability. But for now, there was nothing to worry about.

There was, he knew, a time in his life when he would have been down there with the twins, if he could have been, helping them to think up new pranks, new potions to try and new enchantments to write. They reminded him of all the best parts of school, the best parts of the men he used to call friends, brothers: loud, wild, maybe a little dangerous, even, but tempered enough to be funny more often than cruel.

But that was a long time ago, and he knew it like it was a story that had happened to someone else.

He used to be the sort of person who wanted to be at the center of things, always hanging around the loud, dangerous, exciting boys – not loud or dangerous or exciting himself, but, oh, how he had wanted to be. He had wanted to be like James, like Sirius. He had thought scornful thoughts of Remus, who _could_ have been like them, but _wouldn’t try_ , because he was too afraid of himself, of the Wolf within him.

He had wanted that right up until the moment the War had become real.

Until the moment he realized that Regulus had led him into a trap.

He didn’t blame Reg, even now – the younger boy had been so kind to him, only trying to help – but he had fallen into the trap nonetheless, and then, only _then_ had he realized what it meant to truly be at the center of things, caught between _truly_ dangerous people. To harbor a secret that made you a danger to everyone around you.

He had never understood Remus better than he did in those years, those thirty-three months of _torture_ , when he had been caught in that web of lies and guilt, with no right answers and no way out.

He had gone, suddenly, from a young enchanter on the fringes of the Order, supplying them, helping, but mostly taking care of his ailing mother, to a spy, coerced, attempting (all untrained) to become a double agent, to get himself back on the right side.

He had _failed_.

He had failed so miserably, so completely, that _both_ sides would condemn him, if they knew he lived.

He knew that most people would probably think him mad for choosing to remain in his animagus form for so many years, but the war had _broken_ him. Even before Bellatrix had torn into his mind, and You Know Who had shredded his soul, tearing the Secret from him, all he had wanted was a _quiet_ life. A _safe_ life.

He had been brave – as brave as he could be – refusing to give up, telling himself that he would find a way to get back to the Light, that he would get some crucial bit of information on the Death Eaters, go to Dumbledore, save himself. He had tried to betray only the least-important details, and only when he absolutely had to, all the while seeking that opening, but there had _been_ no opening, and then they had damned him, asking him to take on the Secret, and he had damned himself, unable to tell his one-time friends, those dangerous boys grown into dangerous men, that he was _weak_ , that he had _betrayed them_ , that he _could not_ be trusted. Not with that.

So trust him they had, and he had failed.

The moment he had put his own life before the Potters’, even as he tried to convince himself that there was no other way, he had prayed to God for mercy, because he knew there would be none for him on Earth.

The Death Eaters left him, broken, lying like rubbish in a corner, distracted by their own games and politics as HE had gone off to murder the best man Peter had ever known, to kill his daughter for the possibility she represented, that she might be the one who could someday destroy him. Peter had crawled away, physically unharmed, but in pain beyond anything he had ever felt, before or since. Sirius had once said that there was a worse pain than the Cruciatus, beyond the physical, and Peter hadn’t believed it, until then. But he could still do magic. He could still transform. He could run, and he did, leaving that dark place behind.

Maybe it would have been safer to stay, knowing that Sirius and Remus would be out for his blood as soon as they heard, but he couldn’t stay _there_ , with _them_.

And then he had heard, lurking around the back of the Cauldron, that the Dark Lord had fallen, and he knew that if it had been on his word, if the Prophecy had come true, and he had allowed it to happen, there was nowhere in the world he could hide from Bellatrix. God, what a nightmare, running from Blacks on both sides of the war.

He had been, officially, _in too deep_. But he had always been good at thinking on his feet. The only thing left to do was to try to save himself, no matter the cost. The only way to stop the Death Eaters from hunting him down and killing him very, _very_ painfully, and worse, killing his mother to get to him, was to make them think he was dead. He had to die, and very publically.

He had to frame someone for his murder.

And, God forgive him, he had known immediately who it would be.

Remus was still out of the country, on business for Dumbledore, but Sirius… Sirius would be out there, somewhere, hunting him down. It was only a matter of time, really, until he found him. And when he did, well… it would be only too easy for most of the world to believe that dangerous, unstable Sirius _Black_ had been the one to truly betray the Potters. That he had been working for the Dark all along.

Peter thought he would lie low until the Death Eaters were rounded up, until Remus would definitely have heard of his ‘death’ and Sirius’ ‘betrayal,’ and then he would leave the country, start a new life somewhere else, where no one knew his face. Venezuela, maybe.

But then Malfoy had somehow suckered the Wizengamot into believing an _Imperius defense_ , and any Death Eater with money and sense had ridden his coattails to safety – all the most dangerous ones, in other words. He had never known which ones held the other ends of the tracking charms embedded in his very blood and bones, but he didn’t think he could risk it, taking back his human form, even half a world away.

It was the greatest of ironies that he had, in the end, found his safe, quiet life. There were worse fates than being “reincarnated” as the Weasley boys’ pet rat. He had a warm, safe place to sleep and as much food as he wanted, he didn’t have to work, and all of his enemies thought he was dead. Except one.

Sirius Black.

He wasn’t stupid, even in rat form. Weak, yes. Scared, yes. But not stupid.

Rats were, as Percy had once liked to brag to his friends, incredibly intelligent animals. A clever rat could learn a lot of things, lurking in the background, listening to important conversations.

It had taken him all of half an hour after that fateful Daily Prophet had been delivered to learn that Sirius was out of Azkaban. He had _escaped_ from Azkaban. Well… if anyone was going to escape Azkaban and then elude the dementors for months on end, Peter supposed he wasn’t surprised that it was Sirius. He’d always had a gift for doing and _being_ a little impossible. Larger than life.

Everyone thought that he was coming to Hogwarts to kill Mary Potter, but Peter knew the truth: Sirius would have protected little Mary with his life. If there was anyone he would be coming to Hogwarts to kill, it was _Peter_.

How he had figured out where Peter was, Peter didn’t know.

But he knew about Peter’s Wormtail form. He was one of the three living people who knew about that. Four, if Bellatrix had told You Know Who after she _legilimized_ him, and HE counted as ‘living.’ (Another one of those important things Peter knew from strategic lurking was that whatever James and Lily had done, however Mary Potter had destroyed HIM, it hadn’t taken. No one who had an ounce of sense really believed HE was _gone_.)

Still, Sirius was the only one of them who knew _Peter_ was still alive. He was literally the _only_ threat to Peter’s living a long, happy (or at least reasonably content) life as a rat.

If he thought he’d stand any chance at all of tracking _Sirius_ down and killing _him_ before _he_ could kill _Peter_ , Peter half thought he might grit his teeth and have a go at it. But he knew, deep down in the tattered remains of his shredded soul, that he didn’t. Sirius was, when it came down to it, still a _Black_ : deeply unstable and utterly terrifying. Peter could still remember the look on his face when Pete had told McGonagall about how he had nearly killed Snivellus. Betrayal and bloodlust. And it would only be a _million_ times worse, this time, after Peter had failed to protect James and Lily, and then threw Sirius under the lorry in his place, faked his own death, and disappeared to spend twelve years safe and secure and _not_ in prison, or being hunted down by both the Death Eaters and the Order.

He wouldn’t be surprised if Sirius managed to kill him with his bare goddamn hands.

 _If_ , that was, Sirius managed to catch Peter before the dementors caught _him_.

So now he had a choice to make. There were two options.

The first was to run. He could do it. He could run away from Ron at King’s Cross, get on a train, be on his way to anywhere but Britain in a matter of hours. But that would mean taking the risk that, however Sirius knew how to find him, however he had known that Peter was up in Gryffindor Tower on Halloween night, he would be able to find him again. Taking the risk that Sirius would be able to move faster than he could. Give up his security, his easy life as a pet, in favor of the uncertainty of a life on the run, and not stop until one of them was caught.

The second was to go back to Hogwarts. He could keep his place as Ron’s pet, safe behind the strongest wards in Magical Britain. Not that they had stopped Sirius getting in and out as a student _or_ on Halloween, but they had to be slowing him down, at least. And more importantly, if they couldn’t stop him, Peter was pretty sure no _other_ wards would be able to. And everyone from the Minster of Magic to Dumbledore himself was determined to keep Mary Potter safe from Sirius. So _logically_ , the safest place to be would be right next to her.

He knew he should go back, but he was _terrified_.

It was like sitting in a baited trap, where _he_ was the bait, waiting for the dementors to finally do their goddamned _jobs_ and capture Sirius again!

He _knew_ it was safest there, but he _wanted_ to run. He wanted to run as far as he could, bury himself in some lost corner of the world, and not have to worry about his one-time friend tracking him down and ripping him limb from limb.

The _best_ he could hope for, if Sirius caught him, was a quick death, but Sirius had always been the cruel one, out of the four of them – he might regret it, after, when James told him he wasn’t funny, but he thought nothing of picking out a victim’s greatest insecurities and playing on them for a laugh. And now, thanks to Peter, there was no James to hold him back.

He shivered, uncurled so that he could ball himself up again, so anxious he was making himself sick.

Ron, who had obviously been watching, rose from his desk and stroked Wormtail’s nose gently, murmuring soothing, empty words.

Peter made a conscious effort to relax. He knew he was not all that interesting of a pet, but he appreciated that Ron had made the effort to care for his old, hand-me-down rat. The least Peter could do was try to stop the kid worrying about him.

Ron, satisfied to have soothed his pet, returned to his homework, muttering invective against Snivellus, who had, inexplicably, kept his position as Potions Professor after the end of the war, despite the fact that he was no longer needed there as a spy.

Perhaps, like Peter, he thought it was the safest place for him, under the wing of the Headmaster he had duped into believing he was a double agent (and wouldn’t Peter like to know how _he_ had pulled it off, the whole double agent thing, in just a little over a year, when Peter hadn’t managed to do so over nearly _three_ , the slimy, sodding bastard). But then, Snape had always been smart. Peter might hate him for finding a way to live his life in the open, for getting his Mastery barely two years out of Hogwarts, and for refusing to bow before the might of the Marauders back in school, but the fact remained, he _had_ managed to do all of those things. If he thought that Hogwarts was the safest place to be, it probably was.

He let out a small, rat-sized sigh. He knew what he was doing. He was trying to convince himself to go back. Or rather, trying to convince himself that the decision he had already made to go back was the right one. It left him shaking, but he _knew_ it would be more dangerous to run. He was sure of it. But that didn’t change the fact that making the best of a poor lot of choices wasn’t really the same thing as making a _good_ choice.

The war had taught him nothing if not _that_.

###  Sunday, 9 January 1994

#### Hogwarts Express

The last few days of break, Mary felt, had been just about perfect. The Doctors Granger were back to work, so there had been fewer opportunities for friction between them and Hermione. _She_ and Hermione had been getting on well since the older girl had admitted that she had been keeping her association with the Weasley twins a secret. She swore up and down that Mary now knew all of her secrets, or at least that she wasn’t intentionally keeping anything from her. They had spent the vast majority of the last half-week of vacation outlining a warding system for Mary’s dorm room, with the help of the book Remus had given Mary and a few tricks the twins had taught Hermione. At Dan’s suggestion, they had owled a copy to Bill, asking him whether he thought it would work.

The Professor had forwarded a notice from Gringott’s about a pair of deposits to her account, which she was certain had to be a mistake, until it was followed by a note from Snape, which explained that he had completed the dissection and sale of the basilisk, and had deposited a ten-percent finder’s fee in her name. The second deposit was exactly one third of the first, and after several hours of head-scratching, Mary realized that the twins must have followed through on the bargain they had made at the end of the previous year, to give her an equal share of the proceeds if she spoke to Snape for them about claiming the carcass of the giant serpent. Looking at the numbers, she joked that it was almost enough incentive to go into basilisk farming, if this was only thirteen percent of the profits.

Hermione, predictably, took this slightly more seriously than Mary had intended, pointing out that it would probably be easier for a Parselmouth to get a license to do so, but Mary thought it would probably be way too difficult for her to actually _kill_ them – at least if they weren’t actively trying to kill her. “Seriously, though – what is Snape going to do with… seven or eight times this amount of money?” she had asked, to change the subject.

It was somewhat reassuring to find that, despite her Ravenclaw friend’s sudden and surprising relationship with the Head of Slytherin, she had no idea. It was good to know (though she wasn’t sure exactly _why_ she felt it was good) that there were some things Snape had not seen fit to discuss with Hermione, despite their time spent bonding over the Dark Arts (or whatever – that was how Hermione made it sound, at least, even if it wasn’t intentional).

Spurred on by the reminder of the Chamber of Secrets Debacle, Mary buckled down and finished her translation of the main text of the book Riddle had sent her. (The marginalia were far more difficult to decipher, given that she wasn’t entirely sure what language they were in half the time, and she had long-since given up on them entirely.) It was… interesting, to be sure, but not entirely useful. The best part of it, she thought was the syllabary and the discussion of possible uses for it in runic casting, but there were two major issues with actually trying to use any of the spells it suggested.

Firstly, the book often said something like “The symbol ‘[  ̴̥̽]’ signifies the initial sound in the word which translates as ‘expectare,’” which was problematic because _expectare_ could be translated as _to wait_ or _to hope_ or _to look_ , which all had very different initial sounds when Mary tried hissing them aloud in Parsel. Secondly, runic casting was illegal, not because it was actually dark (or at least not according to Hermione), but because it was potentially very powerful and destructive if it went wrong, even if you were trying to use it in healing or protection spells, which meant there was practically no one around who could and would teach her how to do it.

She had still had to spend half a morning convincing Hermione that they didn’t need to re-write her bedroom wards to include a Parsel element to block unwanted noise, just to see if it would work as a carved rune-scheme. On the whole, she preferred that the _wards_ worked, and she didn’t want to risk messing everything else up just to test a Parsel rune or two.

Lilian had come over later that afternoon to laze about and fool around with the computer: she had never seen one in person before, and the others had had a good time demonstrating its use with Emma’s small collection of games. Lilian, to no one’s surprise but Hermione’s, beat Hermione’s high score in Pac-Man on her second try. They carefully avoided discussing their row over Yule, and Mary brought out her photo from the Wizengamot excursion, which earned her a (relatively quiet) wolf whistle from her fellow Slytherin. “I take it back,” she had declared. “You’re already a bit of a looker, Blitz.” Mary had flushed slightly at the easy compliment, but she didn’t think either of the others had noticed, because Lilian had gone right on to say, “Now if only we could get Hermione to do something about that _hair_ …”

Dan and Emma had taken the girls out to dinner the night before they were to head back to school, to a Lebanese restaurant, which was nothing like any food Mary had ever had before. She found herself bemoaning, for the first time, that the Hogwarts elves didn’t prepare a broader selection of meals. They were brilliant at the standard fare, of course, but there weren’t a whole lot of opportunities to try new things.

The trip back to Hogwarts was very similar in many ways to the train-ride at the beginning of the year, with the exception that Remus apparated over (Mary hadn’t told him where she was staying, so he had to have been in contact with the Grangers at some point), and escorted the girls through the floo, rather than the whole family driving up. He looked better, at least physically, she thought, for the vacation, but more troubled – about what he wouldn’t say.

They – Remus, Mary, Hermione, Lilian, Ginny, and Luna – spent the first two hours of the journey catching up on their holidays. Remus, Mary suspected, was rather bored by their adolescent gossip, but he was a good sport about it, telling them about his friends Jessamine and Carlos, whom he had visited in France (leaving out the fact that they were werewolves), and asking polite questions about Lilian’s new puppies, Luna’s bracelets (which all of the girls were wearing), and Ginny’s parents, whom he had apparently known once upon a time.

The puppies were still adorable (Lilian had brought pictures). Luna refused to say exactly how the bracelets worked, but after a bit of talking around in circles, they established that they were meant to ward off sadness. Whether this was metaphorical, or whether there was more to the runes woven into the bands than making them glow in the dark (which was all Mary had noticed them doing since Christmas), was not entirely clear. Hermione suggested that it was a placebo of some sort, and that was why Luna wouldn’t explain, but the little blonde just laughed and told her to keep guessing.

Ginny’s visit home, apparently, was every bit as awful as she had suspected it would be. Her parents were in good health, she told Remus, but they didn’t really get along anymore – they just put on a show of family togetherness at the holidays. Lilian had commented sardonically that she wished her parents would do even that much, and the conversation hit a rather depressed lull. It was broken by the arrival of Draco Malfoy, of all people. His expression of arrogant ponciness faltered when his eyes met Ginny’s, and nearly failed completely when he registered Remus’ presence, but he recovered and invited himself in.

“Professor,” he drawled. “Potter, Moon, Granger. Lovegood. Weasley.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Remus greeted him politely, obviously trying to suppress a smirk. “Good holiday?”

“Tolerable, sir.” He stood stiffly in the center of the compartment, obviously unwilling to sit without being invited, or else uncertain whether he should sit between the blood traitor and the werewolf professor, or the muggleborn and the strange and unnerving… Luna. There was really no other word that captured the essence of her character. There were no other open seats.

Before anyone else could say anything, Ginny excused herself, brushing past the uncomfortable-looking Malfoy with a look that held a significance Mary couldn’t place. Luna cocked her head to the side and said, “The first Stone was yours to speak of, Draco Scorpius. Secrets fester like wounds the longer they’re untended, you know,” before she followed her red-headed friend.

Draco stared after her, completely baffled. “Erm… what?”

“She has that effect on _everyone_ , Draco,” Lilian advised him. “Sit down.”

He did, choosing the now-vacant seat across from Hermione.

“What brings you to our compartment, Malfoy?” Mary asked. They were not on such good terms as he and Lilian, off the Quidditch pitch.

“I was… hoping to have a word with Granger, actually,” he said, obviously changing his intended wording mid-sentence, with a quick glance at Remus. Remus had pulled a book from some pocket or another, and was studiously ignoring them, which Mary thought probably meant he was listening closely, but had no intention of interrupting.

“I only translate Luna-speak for people I _like_ ,” Hermione joked.

Lilian sniggered, but Mary said, “Wait – you understood that one?”

The older girl sighed. “Honestly, that was one of the _straightforward_ ones. Try sharing a common room with her.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Draco sneered.

“I won’t,” Lilian admitted cheerfully. “I’ll just ask Jeanie after you’re gone.”

The boy glared at her, but turned back to Hermione, rather than dignify that with a response. “I’m not here to talk about Loone – uh… Lovegood,” he corrected himself at the girls’ sharp glares.

“Then what _are_ you here to talk about?” the Ravenclaw asked.

“I don’t suppose we could have a bit of _privacy_ , could we?” he asked, in a tone that said he expected the compartment to empty at his word.

Mary rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.” They _had_ been there first.

“Nope!” Lilian said simultaneously, popping the ‘p.’

“Don’t mind me,” Remus lifted his book slightly, conspicuously confirming Mary’s guess that he was, in fact, paying attention.

Draco glared around at all of them.

Hermione shrugged, falsely apologetic. “I’d tell at least Lizzie and Lili anyway.”

“ _Fine_ then,” the blond growled, and pointed at her. “ _Your_ _mother_ was in _my_ house over break, having lunch with _my mother_ , and I want to know why!”

Hermione started laughing uncontrollably, and Mary was hard-pressed not to join her, simply based on the look of absolute indignance plastered across his face.

“It’s _not funny_ , Granger! I had to _eat lunch_ with a _muggle_! I’m probably _contaminated for_ _life_!”

“Mal –” Hermione cut herself off, laughing too hard to speak. “Malfoy,” she giggled. “If you weren’t so ridiculous, I’d be really offended right now.”

“Your mum took lunch with Lady Malfoy?” Lilian asked skeptically.

Hermione nodded, chuckling again, as Draco spat, “ _Yes_.”

“What the bloody hell is your problem, Malfoy?” Mary asked, sufficiently unamused to be offended for both herself and Hermione.

“There was a _muggle_. In my _house_ ,” he explained, speaking very slowly, as though she was rather thick. “I had to eat with it. I had to be _polite_. Mother made me call it _Goodwife Granger_. I demand an explanation for this!”

Apparently calling her mother an ‘it’ was a step too far, even for Hermione, who responded before Mary could: “I know English is a _difficult_ language, Malfoy, and your hair-care potions have probably killed off three-quarters of the brain cells you’ve ever had, but even _you_ should know that only gendered pronouns are appropriate for use in reference to any being or sentient creature, wizards and muggles included.”

“I – you –!” Draco sputtered, his face growing very pink.

“Sorry, I forgot, wizards don’t do science. Cells are the most fundamental –”

“ _I know what cells are_!” the boy interrupted her.

She smirked. Mary wondered if she would have thought the expression Snape-like if she hadn’t known that they were having weekly meetings. “I’m very happy for you. It’s so good to see that your people are catching up with the times. My mother was invited to your home as a guest by _your_ mother, as you are clearly already aware. I _suggest_ you take up this matter with her.”

“She wouldn’t say,” the boy admitted sullenly, now red with embarrassment, rather than fury.

“What makes you think Hermione would know, then?” Lilian asked, looking genuinely curious.

“Granger is an insufferable know-it-all! _Obviously_ she knows.”

“Wait – did you just… Jeanie! This might be an historic moment! Draco Malfoy has admitted that a _muggleborn_ knows more than he does about something that’s going on _in his own house_!” Mary smirked at the little reminder that Lilian was still on hers and Hermione’s side, even if she and Draco were on first-name, Hogsmeade-date terms.

Draco punched Lilian in the arm, a habit borne of many a smart-arse remark in Quidditch practice. Before Remus could reprimand him, she smacked the back of his head, disturbing his stasis-potioned hair and prompting a very feminine ‘eep’. He cleared his throat, and said in a deliberately deeper voice, “I hate you, Moon,” as he attempted to fix his damaged locks without a mirror.

“Liar.”

“You know, this is why people think you two are dating,” Mary observed.

“We’re not dating!” they said as one.

“And that,” Hermione added, with the ghost of a smile.

Draco grumbled under his breath about insufferable witches, and Lilian fixed his hair with a grin, giving it a more deliberately tousled look than his usual slicked-back Noble Heir style.

Whether she had intended to or not, the brassy blonde had effectively disarmed the tension within the compartment. Mary suspected that Draco didn’t even realize he had had all the wind stolen from his sails. Or at least he didn’t seem to mind. “Are you going to tell him what you mother is up to, Maia?” she asked with a grin.

“I might. But he’d have to apologize, first,” Hermione gave the boy a hard look.

Pride very obviously warred with curiosity on his pale face, before curiosity won out. “My sincerest apologies for the slight against your mother. It was wrong of me to act as though she is less than sentient despite her lack of magic. Having interacted with her, I know that it is untrue, and I regret my show of temper in implying such a falsehood.”

Mary wouldn’t have accepted it – his tone was the _opposite_ of sincere – but Hermione did, with a similar degree of disdain: “Despite the rather rehearsed and formulaic quality of your apology, I suppose the statement that you are aware of the impropriety of your actions and that you regret having lost your temper are true, if only because it means you’ve had to make the apology in the first place. My mother was at your house because she is working with _your_ mother on a project to reform the process of muggleborn integration.”

“Mother wouldn’t work with a –” Draco began angrily, but cut himself off before whatever slur he had intended to spout. “Why, by Merlin’s left _ball_ , would my mother care about muggleborn integration?” he asked instead, too irritated to pull off his usual drawl, but making an effort nevertheless.

“ _Demographics_ ,” Hermione said succinctly.

“Demographics? What in the nine bloody hells is that supposed to mean?”

The Ravenclaw smirked. “Second hint: Democratic Expansionism.”

The boy glared at her, scrutinizing her expression closely. “I don’t believe you. You’re having me on.”

Mary laughed. “She’s really not.”

Draco ignored her, crossing his arms and slouching in a sulk. “There’s no way Mother is working with _your_ mother, and certainly not on any project that would benefit muggleborns. I should have known you wouldn’t know anything! I don’t know why I thought your mother would have told you anything when my mother didn’t tell me.”

Hermione interrupted with a sharp _ha!_ “Fine, I’ll spell it out for you. I’ll even use little words. My mum wants muggle parents informed about magic and given access to resources to deal with it when their kids are recognized as magical, not after eight to ten years of dealing with accidental magic. _Your_ mother can make that happen. Your mother wants to lay the groundwork for the Allied Dark to convince muggleborns, who make up a full quarter of the magical children born in the UK and Ireland, in case you didn’t know, _not_ to vote in representatives who will side with the Light when the Expansionists finally get their majority. _My_ mum can help do that. Not to mention it’s going to be mud on Dumbledore’s face when it comes out that _Narcissa Malfoy_ has actual _muggle allies_ , when he’s been painting your family as unrepentant Death Eaters for the past decade or so – an impression your behavior doesn’t help with, by the way.”

The pale pureblood had gone even whiter than usual about halfway through Hermione’s explanation. “Even if the Expansionists _do_ get the vote, muggleborns hardly matter! There aren’t enough of you to make a difference!”

“Not _now_ ,” the Ravenclaw agreed. “In twelve years? Well… that’s where the demographics bit comes in. And _politically_ , if they can get muggleborns to support Dark values by influencing them through their parents, they would not only get voters, but they would also undermine half of the Light’s platform, since Dumbledore has made a point of equating pro-muggleborn, progressive, and pro-regulation.”

“Ooh!” Lilian exclaimed. Mary belatedly realized that this was the first time she would be hearing this analysis. “That’s really clever. Especially since if the rest of us can elect Wizengamot seats directly, we won’t have to depend on the Ministry to have some influence.”

“I thought so,” the older girl nodded. “Anyway, Malfoy, that’s the answer to your big mystery: your mother doesn’t care that my mum’s a muggle as long as she can use her to get what she wants.”

“And you’re okay with your mother being used like that?” Draco asked warily.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Weren’t you paying attention? My mum’s using your mother too. That’s how politics _works_ , Draco. Maybe if you’d grow up a bit and demonstrate the ability to think critically about political situations, your parents would tell you these things outright, but if you can’t even get that basic principle through your pasty skull, and can’t keep a civil tongue in your head when you’re begging for information, I can see why they wouldn’t.”

“I don’t have to listen to this!” the boy said, standing up abruptly.

“No, you don’t,” Mary agreed, suddenly realizing that, whether he had done it in the manner he intended or not, Draco _had_ gotten the information he had wanted, and there probably _was_ a reason his mother hadn’t told him in the first place. “But you’d do well to keep it to yourself.”

“Why’s that, Potter?” he sneered.

“ _Because_ , I’m _guessing_ that your mother and Emma have some kind of plan for exactly how they want this information to get out, and when. You know, not just filtering out of Hogwarts randomly because you two couldn’t keep your mouths shut.”

Hermione looked as though she was about to say something, then had a second thought, and closed her mouth, flushing slightly, looking rather embarrassed. Draco did something similar, though he looked rather more irritated.

“She has a point, Draco,” Lilian added, and he huffed out the breath he had taken to speak.

“ _Fine_. I take your point,” he said, in a rather grudging tone.

“Go _away_ , Malfoy,” Hermione said with a pout, obviously sore that he had managed to so effectively goad her into giving away their mothers’ plans. Mary didn’t recall Emma saying that they needed to be kept secret or confidential, but she was pretty sure the revelation of the Granger-Malfoy IMP Alliance (or whatever it ended up being called) would need to be handled more carefully than either of the ladies’ children was capable of doing. She would have to write and inform Hermione’s mother of this latest development as soon as they reached the school.

Draco looked almost like he’d like to stay, just to avoid doing something Hermione had told him to, but after a few seconds’ hesitation, he did, indeed go, with a nod toward the other girls, a conspicuous _lack_ of a nod toward Hermione, and a hasty “Professor.” He slammed the door of the compartment rudely behind him, leaving silence in his wake.

Remus set his book aside, looking around from one of them to the next, trying, if Mary was right, to gauge their respective moods.

Lilian smirked broadly. “Well done, Jeanie,” she needled their friend, and received a two-fingered salute for her trouble.

The youngest of their trio laughed despite herself at the brunette’s expression of mortified irritation.

“I have a proposal,” she said, changing the subject. “Now that we’ve got the compartment to ourselves, we should talk about Patronus lessons!”

Remus seized onto the topic readily. “I’ve been thinking about that, you know – It’s not as though we can really bring a dementor into the school to practice. The older students have been doing ‘dry runs,’ essentially, but I think if we’re to do this properly, we need an emotional stimulus for you to overcome. Perhaps a boggart, if I can track one down…”

The remainder of the train ride passed quickly. The discussion of Patronus lessons was interrupted by Blaise and Theo, who regaled them with tales of discomfiting the latest of Blaise’s step-fathers, and then that discussion was de-railed by the arrival of Dave and Alex, who were eager to hear how the rest of them had passed the holiday.

Ginny and Luna reappeared not long after the boys left to see if they could find Nora, and Mary finally received an explanation of Luna’s comment to Draco: It seemed that he and Ginny had seen visions at Mabon that related to _both_ of their families, and therefore neither of them had known which one they were allowed to talk about with anyone but each other (which they also hadn’t done). Ginny still didn’t _want_ to talk about hers, but she said she could understand how Draco might, now that he knew which one it was.

In casting about for a topic to change the subject, the Gryffindor had asked whether Mary had finally ordered a new broom, which had led to Mary admitting that someone had supposedly sent her a _Firebolt_ for Christmas, and the three Quiddich players rhapsodizing over the broom until they reached Hogsmeade. After a good bit of debate on the subject, both Lilian and Ginny agreed to keep it a secret until the first Slytherin Quidditch practice. Mary was looking forward to seeing the shock and awe on all of their faces at once, and in exchange she was more than willing to let the other girls have a go on the world-class broom (after she had broken it in, of course).

###  Tuesday, 11 January 1994

#### (New) History of Magic Classroom

Professor McGonagall had been nearly as excited about the Firebolt as Mary, despite her stoic presentation of the news two weeks prior. She had sent a note directly after the Welcome Back Dinner suggesting that Mary meet her at the lakeside before breakfast the following morning to for its inaugural flight.

It was _brilliant_. The Professor had probably only suggested the lakeside because the Hufflepuffs had a morning practice on the pitch, but streaking across the vast expanse of open water (far larger than the Pitch) and circling to admire the view of the castle, windows lit as the other students began to stir, was exhilarating. Gorgeous. It was also _freezing_ , moving at that speed in the cold, damp air, but worth every second she spent shivering as they made their way back to the Castle. The acceleration was like _nothing_ she had ever managed on her Nimbus, even in Suicide Dives, and the maneuverability was so sharp that she practically had to sit sideways in the air so she wouldn’t throw herself off turning at speed.

Aunt Minnie had laughed and clapped as she demonstrated loose corkscrews and easy loops, hanging breathlessly in the pre-dawn light, but she had declined when Mary offered to let her have a go. She had been a beater in her day, but she said she knew better than to put her rickety old bones on a broom that moved like _that_. The Slytherin had obligingly reassured her that she wasn’t _that_ old, but she didn’t really care to argue the point when she had mostly just been trying for politeness in making the offer in the first place. She took off with a whoop to make one last circuit of the lake at top speed, adrenaline fizzing through her veins with an almost magical tingle, prompting the Professor to more laughter.

She had been so high on the excitement of the early-morning flight that she almost wasn’t irritated when she received a nagging little note from Catherine at breakfast, reminding her to apologize to Daphne. She had done so, asking for a word in private, and then going through the formal, scripted process that Draco had abridged in apologizing to Hermione on the train. She fancied she made it sound rather more convincing than he had, especially when she said that she regretted jumping to conclusions and would do her utmost not to act so Gryffindorishly in the future. Daphne had accepted her words graciously, and informed her that if Mary wanted to demonstrate her sincerity, she could attend the party Daphne was hosting that very Sunday. There was a glint in the socialite’s eye that suggested she _knew_ Mary didn’t really want to go, but she agreed anyway, because, as she had been so-recently reminded, it was the advantageous thing to do. Plus there was no point in apologizing if she immediately instigated another falling-out.

Monday lunch had been an altogether more pleasant affair than many previous Mondays, because Lilian and Draco no longer had any complaints about Care of Magical Creatures. Professor Grubblyplank, a short, middle-aged witch with a very prominent chin and a no-nonsense attitude, had spent the first Slytherin-Gryffindor Care class outlining an abridged syllabus for them, to catch them up on the whole term of lessons they had essentially missed. The Gryffindors had, apparently, amused them by sulking over Hagrid’s sacking and, as Lilian had announced triumphantly, every one of the creatures they were to study for the rest of the year was a _vertebrate_ (even if they weren’t quite so exciting as hippogriffs).

At Quidditch practice Monday evening, the team had been appropriately impressed by Mary’s new broom. (Draco had been positively _green_ with envy.) Flint, however, had pulled her aside at the end of the night to tell her, reluctantly, that she was benched for their upcoming match. As pleased as he was to have his seeker on _the best possible broom_ , he wasn’t about to let her risk life and limb flying it in a real match before it was entirely broken in, and a week simply wasn’t long enough to become accustomed to the new handling. Mary thought he was underestimating her abilities, but he was right: her performance hadn’t been quite as tight as usual. Plus, though she wouldn’t admit it, she was still a little leery of another dementor appearance. There had only been one match and the make-up since her fall in November, and she didn’t quite trust them to stay away, so she didn’t argue the issue too strongly.

All of Mary’s other classes picked up where they had left off, with the exception of History, which, like Care of Magical Creatures, had a new professor. It had also been moved to a new classroom. Most of the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs had arrived early for their first lesson, and were speculating on why.

“My brother says Binns is still lecturing in the old classroom,” Hannah was telling the rest of the assembled students when Mary and Lilian arrived.

“That’s so stupid,” Zacharias laughed.

Pansy apparently agreed. “They should’ve just exorcised him – why are they keeping him around?”

“Ghosts have rights too, you know,” Blaise said, with a tone of false concern.

Most of the students laughed, Mary included, but Ernie Macmillan shook his head. “I don’t think that’s it, Zabini.”

Blaise looked taken aback for a long second, as though trying to figure out whether the Hufflepuff was serious. Then the rather quiet Sally-Anne said, “He was being sarcastic, Ernie,” and laughter broke out again as Macmillan flushed.

“Chelsea Miller said Professor Snape gave her brother detention with Binns yesterday,” Leanne Malone volunteered.

Lilian gave an overly-dramatic shudder. “That sounds _way_ worse than scrubbing cauldrons.”

“So they kept him around just to bore us to death during detention?” Greg asked. He sounded outraged.

“My understanding is that it frees other professors from the burden of supervising lines and so on,” a deep, strangely accented voice broke in.

The mob of students turned to see their professor standing in the doorway. From his voice, Mary would have expected a large, heavy-set man, but the wizard was actually rather gangly, with a Mediterranean complexion and a rather absent-minded smile. If she had had to guess, she would have put him between Professors Snape and Vector in age. He shooed them toward their tables, and meandered toward the front of the room, pacing before them as he introduced himself.

“I am Marzio D’Onofrio. I was born in a little town outside of Ravenna, in Italy.” Mary sneaked a look at Blaise, who was predictably thrilled to have an Italian Professor. The professor in question cast an illusory map of the boot-shaped country on the wall behind him, and pointed out the region.

“This is in the territory of the magical state New Illyria.” The map changed, expanding to show the countries to the east of Italy. A new border, in gold, instead of the black of the muggle political boundaries, drew itself around the little spit of water between Italy and the other countries. Only part of Italy was included.

“New Illyria is a young state, established after the end of Grindelwald’s War. The war ended in 1945, and New Illyria was established in 1948. You do not need to write this down,” he added, as many of the class shuffled for parchment and quills. “New Illyria is a young state, but it is built on very old territories, and includes many cities and institutions far older than itself, much as Hogwarts predates the formation of your Ministry of Magic and today’s Magical Britain. The capitol city is Venice, here,” he pointed. It was not very far from Ravenna.

“I made my studies first at the Venetian Academy of the Magical Arts, where I earned my basic and advanced competencies. I then continued to study magical and non-magical history under Maestra Ilona Cortese of the Scuola Magia Salernitana, in Salerno. Salerno is also in Italy, and the magical state of Etruria, which includes the entire region of the Tyrrhenian Sea.”

The city was in a different part of Italy, much further south. Etruria was, much like New Illyria, mostly water, part of Italy (the western side of the peninsula) and the land on the other side of the water – in this case, three large-ish islands, which Mary didn’t know the names of: one to the south, and two to the west. There was space between the borders of New Illyria and Etruria, and the girl found herself wondering what magical state claimed that land, but the professor did not address it.

“I earned my own accreditation, my Mastery, in 1979, and have since taught all levels of history and modern politics lessons at Beauxbatons, in France.” That, Mary thought, must explain the accent – halfway between Italian and French.

He smiled self-depreciatingly and added, “Unfortunately, I cannot show you the location of the school, for even in illusion it is Unplottable, but if you fly high enough, from its grounds, you can see La Montagne Tournette.” The map expanded even further to show France, and a red dot for the mountain. “Magical Frankia,” he noted, “is rather more extensive than muggle France.” Its borders included a good section of Germany, as well.

“I am looking forward to working closely with you and your Examination Board to revise the standards of this class – I have met the ghost of your former professor, and it is clear that there is a reason your Headmaster and your Board of Governors were obliged to seek qualified applicants abroad.” There was a bit of sniggering at this, though D’Onofrio said it in a completely neutral tone.

“As some of you may know, it is the norm in most of the nations of the Confédération Internationale des Sorciers, that is the International Confederation of Wizards, to meet the standards for education set by the Conseil Européenne d'Équivalence pour l'Éducation, the European Council for Equivalency of Education.

“Magical Britain is not alone among C.I.S. member states in setting its own competency exams, and in most cases an O.W.L. or N.E.W.T. from the Magical British Wizarding Examination Authority is accepted as equivalent to corresponding basic and advanced international qualifications. There are some variations by subject, and some states which hold standards higher than the International Equivalency Standard, where British qualifications are not honored, but for the most part they are sufficiently similar that there is no problem.

“The History of Magic O.W.L. is one of the exceptions. I am afraid that an O.W.L. in History of Magic will not suffice in any other country, should you desire to pursue history at an advanced level or seek employment on the continent in any position which requires such a credit. To be perfectly clear, the O.W.L. in History of Magic is, as it stands, useless for all intents and purposes. As such, I shall not be teaching to it.”

The class broke out in muttering at this statement. Mary herself leaned over to hiss, “Sounds good to me,” to Lilian, who nodded enthusiastically, sketching a copy of the map of Europe in her notebook.

Professor D’Onofrio waited for the class to settle before he continued. “A fully competent History of Magic curriculum should include not only the dry facts of names and dates and events, but discussion of the cause and effect leading to each event, allowing one to place it in the larger context. It should also include discussions of _current_ events, and the _formation_ of history: the practices and policies of the institutions that shape your nation’s history, its interactions with other nations and between the peoples within its own borders, and the social forces and principles which have affected and continue to affect the political landscape of history-in-the-making.” Daphne, Mary noticed, was grinning from ear to ear, not even trying to hide how pleased she was with this new philosophy of history.

“With that in mind, we will devote this coming term to discovering what you already know, and bringing you up to a similar level of knowledge, as the base and foundation from which we shall truly begin to build your understanding. The curricula will be re-written and negotiated over the summer, and we will begin your studies anew in the autumn. Any questions?”

Macmillan raised a hand. “What about end of year exams? And homework?” Half the class glared at him.

“This year, I am thinking that we will have a geography test at the end of the year, of both the magical and non-magical countries and their capitols throughout Europe. I will also assign a term-paper, at the spring holiday break, to be turned in during your exam week.” This sounded _much_ better to Mary than their usual interminable essay exams, and looking around, everyone else seemed to agree.

“As for your homework, each week I will give you a topic, a question, to research. You will form an opinion, find references to support your opinion in the library, and then we will discuss and debate each topic in class. You will _not_ turn in any homework or essays for this class, but you _will_ have to participate in the discussion. If you do not participate in discussions, then I will be forced to ask you to write on each topic, which is more time that all of us do not have, no? So you will all discuss each topic in class? _Bene_. Any other questions?”

The students exchanged excited looks with each other. No homework _and_ ten weeks to work on their final exam? D’Onofrio was certain to be everyone’s favorite by the end of the year. He looked around to verify that none of them were about to ask another question, then clapped his hands, and rubbed them together excitedly. “So. Let us talk about something I am sure, after the past six months you all already have an opinion about: dementors. Should they or should they not be used to guard prisoners? Are there alternatives available? If you would do otherwise, why do you think that Magical Britain uses the dementors as prison-guards? Ah, yes, you there, Mademoiselle…”

“Greengrass,” Daphne said, her hand in the air in a most Hermione-like bid for attention. “Imprisoning criminals with dementors is counterproductive, because it slowly dehumanizes them, making them more dangerous to society when they are released.”

The professor smiled and asked, “Does anyone have a counter-point to Mme. Greengrass? What about you, Monsieur…”

Zacharias grinned, apparently as eager to play Devil’s Advocate here as he had been to test Lockhart’s authority the year before. “Smith. I think the threat of Azkaban’s existence serves as enough of a reason not to commit crimes that it makes up for the dehumanization – if I was there and got out, I’d never want to go back, even if I didn’t care much if stealing was wrong, or whatever.”

“An excellent point, M. Smith. The argument for punishment as deterrence. Anyone else?”

“It’s _inhumane_!” Malone snapped at Smith.

“Ah,” the professor said. “This is another good argument. But what solution would you propose instead, Mademoiselle…?”

“Malone. And _anything_ but dementors. A death sentence would be less awful than life in Azkaban.”

“A popular point in Frankia,” the professor nodded. “Can anyone think of the costs to society if Magical Britain _stopped_ using dementors to guard its prison?”

Blaise and Theo had been arguing in whispers at a nearby table. Blaise raised his hand. “Zabini,” he introduced himself. “And Magical Britain doesn’t use the dementors on prisoners, we use prisoners to keep the dementors satisfied with being trapped up on Azkaban themselves.”

Lilian sniggered. Mary, along with many of the Hufflepuffs, and most of the other Slytherins, just stared. It was the opposite of everything she thought she knew about dementors, but it _fit._

Theo scoffed. “I’m telling you, that can’t be it – if it were, they’d just find a way to kill off the dementors!”

“ _Can_ you kill a dementor?” Mary asked.

“They _breed_ ,” Theo said, crossing his arms defiantly. “And the world hasn’t been overrun by them yet, so they have to die sometime.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the same thing as being able to _kill_ them,” Susan Bones pointed out. “I don’t know about you, but _I’ve_ never heard of anything that can actually _hurt_ them, let alone _kill_ them.”

“There has to be _some_ way to hurt them, or they’d never have gotten them to Azkaban in the first place,” Pansy said reasonably.

Oliver Rivers looked skeptical. “Maybe there’s some way to trap them?”

Smith had a positively devious expression on his face. “Even if we could kill them, _should_ we? I mean, like Zabini said, ghosts have rights, too. Why not dementors?”

“Don’t be stupid, Zach!” Abbott reprimanded her house-mate. “They _prey on humans_. They don’t deserve rights!”

“Well, that’s awfully species-ist of you, Abbott,” Tracey needled the Hufflepuff.

“Let’s re-focus,” the professor suggested. “There have been purges carried out on dementors before, though they always seem to return somehow. But let us assume that they could all be killed. How then would you deal with magical criminals?”

“Nurmengard?” Bones suggested. “Something like that?”

Blaise laughed aloud. “Never thought you’d be the type to condone the use of Dark Arts on prisoners, Bones!”

“Couldn’t you just take away their wands?” Finch-Fletchley asked.

Mary found herself shaking her head, thinking of a certain detention. “You don’t need a wand to do magic, if you want it bad enough.” This gained her a few odd looks from students of both houses, but quite a few others were nodding along.

“Even if you can’t do wandless magic, there’s always runes,” Lilian added.

“Nurmengard has wards in each cell that use a wizard’s own magic to power anti-magic containment fields,” Daphne volunteered.

Draco shuddered. “I’d rather be stuck in Azkaban with the dementors than have my magic taken away,” he admitted.

“It’s not permanent,” she said, but he shook his head, looking faintly ill at the idea of life without magic.

“It’s still Dark Arts,” Macmillan pointed out.

“But dementors are Dark Creatures,” Megan Jones argued.

The debate over whether they should sanction the use of Dark Arts on prisoners, and whether it was better or worse than siccing Dark Creatures on them lasted for the remainder of the class period, until the professor announced, “All right, good discussion, everyone! Next time, I’ll discuss different methods that have been used throughout history as solutions to this problem, and then we’ll have a bit of Geography, and a new topic for you to explore over the weekend at the end of the period!”

It was, hands down, the most interesting History of Magic lesson Mary had ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in more of the circumstances of Peter's betrayal, check out 'The Changing of the Guardian' (http://archiveofourown.org/works/7174364/chapters/16285340)


	27. ut gravia sociali sint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That awkward moment when your chapter title is your own made-up and probably incorrect Latin phrase...
> 
> For those who don't recall, from like three months ago, I intended this to mean something like 'which may be socially onerous' - in reference to taking on the patronage of a muggleborn client.

###  Saturday, 15 January 1994

#### Old Dueling Arena

_This was a Bad Idea_ , Mary thought, sizing up her opponent.

She was at least eight inches taller, had a correspondingly longer reach, and probably had eighty pounds on the slim, five-nothing seeker. That hardly mattered in a magical fight, of course, but she couldn’t help taking it into account, because it was _intimidating_. The older witch, at seventeen, or nearly there, looked like a bloody adult, confident in her abilities to take her smaller opponent without breaking a sweat. Smug, even. Physically or magically, Mary was certain she was going to be swatted like a fly.

_A_ very _Bad Idea_ , she revised, but she really had no choice. She could hardly back out at this point.

After the Quidditch match – which Slytherin had won by a fair margin, even with Draco seeking instead of Mary – Sandra Bletchley had interrupted the celebratory atmosphere in the Commons to accuse Dave of stealing a rare book from her family and demand satisfaction from Mary as his Patron.

This wasn’t a complete surprise – Mary had known that the blood purists in the house _had_ to be planning _something_ – but that didn’t mean she reacted well.

Dave, of course, denied it, but the younger Bletchley, Travis, the conniving little worm, had stolen Dave’s bag and retrieved it triumphantly after a suspiciously short search – no doubt he had planted it there himself, probably after Sandra had charmed it Unnoticeable for him.

Mary had suggested this sequence of events to explain why Dave might have had possession of the book. Elder Bletchley had asked whether Mary was impugning the honor of the House of Bletchley by implying that she and her brother were liars, and Mary, her smart tongue getting ahead of her brain, much as it had had a tendency to do with Dudley, had quipped that she was – if Bletchley was impugning the honor of her client by calling him a thief.

After that, things had gone downhill quickly. The blood purists in the house had rallied behind Bletchley. Mary’s supporters – Lilian, Blaise, Theo, Daphne, Alex and Nora, Morgana and her boys, Envy, Sadie, and Blake – stood up behind her. Sean and Artie, the younger Seran, had stepped up beside their siblings after a moment, and Turner had joined her boyfriend. Most of the house had watched with bated breath, anticipating a free-for-all as the sides shouted at each other. Madden and Carpenter joined in on Mary’s side after a few minutes, not _for_ Dave or herself, so much as _against_ the rhetoric the other side was spouting.

Flint, whom Mary had half-hoped would interceded on her behalf, as he had at the beginning of the year (and half-feared, since the favor she had owed him after that intervention was awful), lurked on the sidelines with Chess, Farley, and the sixth-year prefects – with Quidditch players on both sides of the fight, the best he could hope for was defraying the tensions before they erupted into actual violence. The prefects were under orders to keep the peace in the House, but they were clearly loath to get in the middle of an argument that needed to be had, lest it continue to simmer, causing tensions indefinitely, especially when two of their number had very clearly already chosen a side. The prefects didn’t like fighting amongst themselves where the rest of the House could see, any more than Slytherins in general fought amongst themselves where the rest of the school could see.

It was Thane Rowle, a sixth-year blood-purist and a traditionalist of the first order, who managed to announce into a relative lull in the shouting on both sides, that the _proper_ thing to do when there was a question of Honor at stake would be to call for a duel over the matter – rather than letting the situation devolve into a brawl like mudblooded Gryffindor heathens.

If Mary hadn’t already been facing down a horde of angry upperclassmen, she might have taken more offence to his use of the m-word, or to the implication of Gryffindorishness. As it was, she was momentarily distracted, and somehow found herself being volunteered to fight on behalf of her Client by Morgana and Envy. While she couldn’t very well say it wasn’t the right thing to do, and it was, in fact, a responsibility that she had expected to have to fulfill at some point, she hadn’t quite expected that point to occur so soon. And she _definitely_ hadn’t expected the whole House to sneak out to the old dueling arena that had been re-opened for the Dueling Club’s use in order to watch her get her arse kicked by a much larger and sturdier sixth-year.

She suspected that she’d been set up.

This was _exactly_ what Bletchley had wanted when she demanded satisfaction in the first place, she was sure of it.

And she had walked right into it.

She tried to surreptitiously assess her surroundings and simultaneously avoid giving away how nervous she was. She doubted that the sixth-year would do anything _permanently_ damaging to her, but given the potentials of magical healing, _non-permanent_ covered a lot of potentially very painful ground.

_Fuck! Focus, Potter!_

The dueling arena was a large, round platform with runes carved all around its edges. There were tiered seats surrounding it, not unlike the scene Tonks had shown Mary and the Grangers over New Year’s. The match-up wasn’t so different, either, what with Mary being smaller, younger, and magically outclassed by her opponent – Bletchley was a bloody _NEWT_ student, for fuck’s sake! – but unfortunately, unlike Tonks, _Mary_ didn’t have a knife and years of training in using it. If she closed the distance between herself and Bletchley, she didn’t doubt that her opponent would simply punch her in the face with her longer reach and greater physical strength.

She only had – what? A few months’ practice dueling? Bloody hell, she was going to die.

_No. That’s unproductive_.

She had speed. She was fast – much faster on her feet than probably anyone else in Slytherin, including Bletchley. She was good at dodging and not _too_ bad at Shield Charms, but she only knew the most basic Shield and Blocking Spells, and they were easy to break. Creativity? She had picked up a lot of good ideas at the Dueling Club, but Bletchley probably had as well. She couldn’t do spells silently, so the sixth-year would probably have the advantage on her there. If she was trying to embarrass Mary, all she would have to do would be land a spell that stopped her from talking – a tongue-lengthening jinx, or the like. If, on the other hand, she was trying to _hurt_ Mary – and from the look in her eye, there was no reason to think otherwise – her options were damn-near unlimited.

Running seemed about her only viable strategy, which was, honestly, a fucking embarrassing tactic, and abandoning this fight would completely undermine whatever respect the House of Slytherin had for her as its Heir – unless… well, that was an idea. It might serve as a distraction, at least, if she could find the time to cast the spell without getting hexed into oblivion in the meanwhile.

Before she could come up with a better plan, Matthew Bannan, a seventh-year who had not taken sides in the common room, was giving them rules – no permanent harm, and they would go until one of them yielded or was unable to continue. Bletchley bowed before Bannan could call for it, elaborately and obnoxiously, smirking openly at Mary’s gob-smacked expression: if _anyone_ could claim to be the offended party here, it was _her_! She glared, and gave the older girl a two-fingered salute before following it with a sneering nod.

Bletchley cast something silently before she had even straightened her head, but Mary had anticipated it, and spun away, shouting Serpensortia as she did, thankful that this was a spell where her aim mattered relatively little. She dodged two more spells and had to cast a Lumax to get enough of an opening to instruct the snake to _< attack!> _

The older girl tried to vanish the snake, but her spell missed, as she was forced to dodge Mary’s stunner.

When the snake got close enough, the sixth-year tried to stomp on it, simultaneously sending jets of fire at Mary, but the third-year ducked and Accio’d her opponent’s shoe, and the snake’s fangs sank deep into the older witch’s other leg.

The bitch didn’t fall, but she did scream, and sent a wave of icy-blue light sweeping across the entire floor, unavoidable. It ripped through her shield as though it didn’t exist and knocked her off her feet. A sickly bruise-brown light hit her while she was down, though she couldn’t tell what it did. By the time she staggered back to her feet, Bletchley had managed to vanish the snake, though Mary could see blood pooling around her now-favored leg.

She sent a retaliatory piercing hex at the older girl, overpowered with the intention to _stab_ , for whatever that brown spell had done – she was _sure_ it wasn’t harmless, and she _needed_ to end this fight before Bletchley got the upper hand again and completely took her apart – but the older girl blocked it with a simple Protego and a taunt – “That all you got, little girl?”

Mary didn’t bother responding – she didn’t know what she would have said, and she was too busy ducking out of the way of a series of vicious orange-red curses. She avoided the first three, but the fourth caught her, and it felt as if every inch of her skin being pinched and burned at the same time. She was slowing down – she could feel it. An ache and chill in her muscles, tensing them against her will, making her reactions just a little… too… slow.

The third-year rolled painfully to her feet, ignoring the sixth-year’s bragging taunts and the burning and tingling that was slowly working its way deeper into her skin, and hoping it wouldn’t have a long-term effect. It seemed to be wearing off, anyway. She conjured another snake, which nearly exhausted her.

When she realized what was happening – about the time the snake appeared with a crack – Bletchley started flinging curses at Mary. Mary did her best to dodge, foregoing a shield in order to give the snake its marching orders – slithering orders? – oh, her mind was wandering – that was a bad sign. Her hands were shaking, too – her whole body, actually. And she couldn’t move fast enough to dodge a purplish slicing curse – it ripped through her robes and the left side of her chest, beneath them. She could feel blood beginning to ooze down her skin moments later, cold and wet, but she couldn’t pay it any mind – she had to distract Bletchley from the snake.

She sent a series of weak cutting, piercing, and tripping jinxes of her own at the older girl – ridiculously low-level, under-powered things, but she was shaking so hard, now, that she could hardly aim, and she didn’t have the strength for anything more. Plus they looked just as dangerous as they would if they were fully powered. Bletchley, she noted blearily, was starting to waver, as the puddle around her feet continued to grow. She shielded against most of Mary’s spells, but a tripping jinx got through, causing her to stumble and slip with her bad leg on the bloody stage. The snake struck at her wand-arm until she dropped the weapon, then rolled it away with a strong swipe of its tail as it maneuvered itself so that it was poised over her throat ( _< bite the foe, take the magic stick, but don’t kill her>_).

_< What now, Speaker?>_ it hissed, but Mary was beyond responding, either in Parsel or English. She had fallen to her knees – she wasn’t sure when – and couldn’t even bring herself to accept Bletchley’s fearful, “I yield, Potter!”

The last thing she saw before the world faded out was Bannan vanishing the snake. Then he turned toward her, and she heard someone (Dave?) yelling her name. Then there was nothing. She was fully unconscious before she hit the floor.

###  Monday, 17 January 1994

#### Hospital Wing

Mary groaned as she opened her eyes. The hospital wing, _again_. It was the middle of the night, and she was freezing. She reached for the table where Madam Pomfrey tended to put her glasses and wand, but stopped in mid-motion as she heard a familiar voice saying, “No – don’t try to get up, it will set off the wards.”

Hermione’s bushy hair and the blur of her face appeared suddenly, hovering over the apparently empty visitor’s chair.

“Maia?” she asked thickly. “What happened? Is there tea? I’m cold.”

“No tea, but I can heat some plain water for you,” the Ravenclaw offered. Mary nodded weakly, and her friend obliged, setting the Invisibility Cloak aside and handing her a slightly steaming transfigured mug a moment later. It was too hot to drink, and she stared at it morosely, using it as a hand-warmer. “You’re pathetic,” Hermione informed her, though not unkindly, digging through the blankets – there was quite a pile of them, Mary realized – to cast warming charms on the hot water bottles buried within.

“What happened?” Mary repeated herself.

“Well, from what Lilian and Snape tell me, you got in a fight with Sandra Bletchley over some book Dave Rhees definitely didn’t steal, and it turned into a full-fledged honor duel. She hit you with a Blood-Cooling Curse after you set a conjured snake on her,” Hermione explained drily, clearly unimpressed with the Slytherins’ antics.

“Blood-Cooling Curse?” she remembered the rest of it fairly well. She was even quite certain that she had won, since Bletchley had yielded to her second snake before she passed out.

The older girl tisked. “Yes, apparently the upper-year Snakes are very impressed that you managed to keep fighting despite it for nearly five minutes. Lilian and Dave were near frantic. Half your House was here Saturday night, bringing the two of you in.”

“Were _you_?” It sounded as though the older girl had been there in person.

“I was unfortunate enough to be in Snape’s office when Madam Pomfrey floo’d him. He was… _not_ pleased. I don’t know whether your finally being awake will make up for your contribution to the blatant stupidity running rampant within his House. I’m paraphrasing, here. He ranted on in that vein at length.”

Mary groaned, then realized: “Wait – finally? How long have I been out? And what happened to Bletchley? Can I at least say she got the worst of it?”

Hermione snorted. “Not hardly. She was bitten a few times, and fairly badly, but conjured snakes aren’t poisonous, so she was only here Saturday night, blood replenishing and simple wound-knitting. _You_ had a massive wound from a cutting curse, your core temperature was verging on hypothermia, and you were magically exhausted from fighting while instinctively resisting the Cooling Curse. Snape says the only reason you survived the cutting curse was that the Cooling Curse had already slowed your bodily functions considerably. You won’t be able to regulate your own temperature properly until sometime tomorrow, and Pomfrey wasn’t expecting you to wake up for another six to twelve hours. It’s Monday, now,” she added, then checked her watch. “Nearly Tuesday.”

“ _Fuck_.” Mary didn’t know what else to say about the situation. “How is Dave? Lilian didn’t say if Slytherin’s giving him any trouble, did she?”

“Dave’s fine. Lilian says that she doesn’t think anyone is going to challenge your patronage of him outright again. In her words, they’re calling it a draw, but seeing you use Parseltongue in a duel and making it a draw with a bloody sixth-year is intimidating enough that the House is cowering in fear of the Heir. But really no one in Slytherin is giving _anyone_ any trouble. From what I understand, Snape is threatening to ban the entire House from Hogsmeade come February if anything like this happens again. You – both of you – nearly died, and the whole house just _watched_.” The Ravenclaw twisted her fingers together for a moment, and bit her lip before adding, “I thought you _were_ dead, when I first came in here. You were _so_ pale, and your skin was like ice… I think it was more touch and go than Snape’s admitting. He was here most of yesterday. Threatened to castrate Professor Lupin if he wouldn’t get out of the way and let him work. And then Professor Lupin was here with Lilian and your minions after dinner today until Madam Pomfrey chucked them out. Everyone else has been stopping in between classes.”

“And you?” It sounded like Hermione had been here almost the entire time.

She shrugged. “Time turner.”

Mary nodded. “So what have I missed?”

The older girl smiled slightly. “Oh, well… besides Snape threatening the whole of Slytherin into submission, and your reputation being made in your absence? Let’s see… you should probably talk to Dave when you get out of here, because he looks like he’s blaming himself whenever he looks at you. As I said, everyone’s been leaving him alone, so he’s fine aside from that, but… yeah. Greengrass was saying something about a party you missed, so you might want to talk to her as well.”

The Slytherin groaned. “Being in hospital should be a plenty good excuse to miss that stupid tea party.”

Hermione laughed. “Well, _I_ think so, but what do I know about that sort of thing? Anyway, I’m not sure, but I think you might be in for more detentions with Snape. I do know that he was angrier with Bletchley than you, because she’s older and obviously picked the fight, and you were hurt worse, but he was saying that the two of you needed to have a long talk when you woke up. I’m actually under orders to fetch him if you woke up when he wasn’t here. So, you know, fair warning.”

Mary rolled her eyes, but nodded. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Lilian will have all of your homework assignments, obviously, except Arithmancy, but you can borrow my notes if you like. Professor Lupin says he did find a boggart to practice with, but we’re not starting Patronus lessons this week unless Madam Pomfrey declares you completely healed, otherwise she’ll help Filch string him up by his toes – that’s a direct quote. Flint told me and Lilian to tell you that you’re excused from practices for two weeks, but that you’d better be ready to rein in the Firebolt after that, and stop hurting yourself, because he’s not going to miss out on the opportunity to rub Wood’s face in the fact that Slytherin has such a nice broom on the field come April.”

The younger girl chuckled slightly. “In Flint’s terms, that’s like, _I love you, get well soon_.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Hermione said doubtfully. “I _haven’t_ told Mum and Dad about what happened yet – I figured you should have the joy of your own cat-girl confession. But Snape probably has. He seems much more on top of that sort of thing than Professor Flitwick. Oh, and speaking of Professor Flitwick, he’s threatened to disband the Dueling Club if he hears of any more honor duels or any duels at all held unsupervised. None of the Slytherin upperclassmen are allowed to supervise anymore. He warded the arena closed again. And he’ll probably want to have a talk with you as well, I’d imagine, though he didn’t say so.”

Mary winced. Out of all the professors she didn’t want to disappoint, Professor Flitwick was definitely near the top of the list. Especially since he had been so helpful and willing to start the Dueling Club. It would be a shame if it lasted less than a year because of stupid Slytherin House politics. And the idea of admitting her stupidity to Emma and Dan was daunting, especially with the way Dan had been so uncomfortable with the idea of her learning to fight. “Anything else?”

Hermione shrugged. “Professor McGonagall was here before breakfast and after dinner, checking in. She didn’t say anything where I could overhear, but she talked to Madam Pomfrey for a while, and when I went to talk to her about whether there was anyone in the castle who could teach me about scrying – you know, the _useful_ and _teachable_ aspect of Divination – she was obviously preoccupied.”

“Wait – what?” the Slytherin yawned. “Why were you asking her _that_?”

“Oh, um…” Hermione flushed slightly. “I had Divination today, you see, and you know how Trelawney makes a habit of ‘predicting’ all sorts of horrible things happening to people in class? Well, she told me that I was in imminent danger of losing one of the people closest to me, and I walked out.”

Mary stared, shocked. “You just… walked out?”

Her friend’s blush intensified. “I might have, erm… called her a useless baggage, first. And a sherry-soaked old hag of a fraud.”

“Maia!” Mary was struggling not to laugh. “She’s a _professor_.”

“She’s a _drunk_ who’s not fit to teach creative writing, let alone Divination, and she was playing on my fear of losing you just to make a bloody impression on the rest of the class! She deserved every word! Honestly, if I hadn’t needed to keep the class to keep the time turner this term, I’d’ve dropped it ages ago. It’s not as though we’ve learned anything all year. The book goes on about feeling your way with your magic, and opening yourself to be receptive to the patterns of the Universe, but Trelawney herself hasn’t done a damn thing to help us figure out how to actually _do_ that. Unless you’re just supposed to suffocate yourself with patchouli incense until you can’t tell magic from hallucinations anymore,” she scoffed.

Now the younger girl was laughing, despite herself. “I can’t believe _Hermione Granger_ walked out of a class.”

Hermione nodded firmly. “I did. I dropped it officially with Professor Flitwick, too, and then went straight to Professor McGonagall and reported her for unprofessional conduct, as well, though I doubt anything will come of it. That’s when I asked her about scrying. She says there’s no one who specializes in that – not since Dumbledore became Headmaster and Professor McKinnon retired to go work for St. Mungo’s.”

That struck a chord in the Slytherin’s memory. “What about Snape?”

“What about him?” Hermione sounded genuinely confused.

Was it possible that Mary knew more about some aspect of magical theory than her Ravenclaw friend? She grinned, absurdly pleased with herself. “He told me… oh, ages ago, that Mind Magic is like Divination mixed with Dark Arts. I don’t remember exactly what the Dark Arts part was, but the Divination bit is kind of like scrying, I think. And we both know he’s brilliant at Mind Magic, so he’s got to know at least a bit about scrying, right?”

The bushy-haired bookworm was dumbstruck. Her jaw actually went slack for a few long seconds before she said, “I’m an _idiot_. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Mary sniggered. “Too much information trapped in your head, not enough time to think about it?” she suggested.

“Oh, shush, you,” the older girl chided, but Mary just grinned more broadly.

“So you’ll ask him, then?”

“Of course I will! I should probably go now, actually, seeing as I have an excuse.”

“Wait – what? It’s got to be past midnight!”

“I’m still supposed to come fetch him if you wake up, remember? Besides, it’s not as if he ever sleeps before three. He’ll be in the lab or his office,” she said confidently. She stood, then bent to kiss Mary’s forehead, as though she was a small child. Her lips were ridiculously warm against Mary’s cool skin. “I’m glad you’re going to be okay,” she said, relief obvious in her tone.

“Me, too,” Mary agreed, resisting the urge to ask for a hug, partly because she was still cold, and partly because she wanted something to hold onto at the moment. She set her now-tepid mug aside and gripped the older girl’s hands tightly instead. “Thanks for staying.” It meant more than she could say that Hermione hadn’t let her wake up alone.

“It was nothing,” the older girl said, squeezing back. “Sisters, right? But I really should get Snape sooner rather than later. He gets snippy after half one.”

The older girl’s matter-of-fact commentary on the fearsome Head of Slytherin broke the solemn mood that had seemed to be developing a few seconds before. “ _Snippy?_ ” Of all the words to describe Severus Snape, _snippy_ wasn’t the first that came to her mind. She wondered fleetingly what had happened to the Hermione Granger who had, less than a year before, been convinced that the snarky Potions Master hated her, and needed Mary to translate Snape-speak.

“ _Don’t_ tell him I said that,” Hermione said sternly, then grinned. “But yes.”

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Of course. I have a free second period. I’ll come then.” She swept the Invisibility Cloak around herself, and Mary heard her silence the door before she opened it. “See you later,” she called quietly, and Mary waved as the heavy wooden panel swung closed.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

Despite Mary’s best efforts, she fell asleep before the Potions Master arrived. She would be willing to bet that he had been delayed by Hermione, begging for tips on scrying, but she probably would have fallen asleep regardless, given her bone-deep, curse-borne exhaustion.

She woke to a quiet baritone murmur – Snape speaking softly to himself. At a guess, he was complaining about her: “All the worst qualities of both her parents – reckless, foolhardy, trouble-seeking, thinks she’s bloody invincible – oh, I’ll just go duel a sixth-year! That sounds like a bloody _excellent_ idea. Too noble by half, letting herself be provoked. I don’t even know how many times this is, now, that she’s nearly died under my supervision. Four? Five?”

“Erm… I think it’s more like nine or ten,” Mary mumbled. “But at least half of those were Quirrellmort.”

“Ah, I see you are awake after all,” the professor drawled.

She nodded. “Did you tell Maia about scrying?” she asked, her mind still a bit muddled from drifting off.

Snape snorted. “As though Miss Granger needs a way to obtain _even more_ illicit information?”

“Weren’t you the one who sent her to the Restricted Section?”

The wizard scowled, just a little. “I hope that none of your other friends are aware of that little… arrangement?”

“ _I_ haven’t told anyone!” Mary defended herself. “And I don’t think you should be angry at Maia, either. She has to talk to _someone._ You know she has nightmares about that stuff, right?” There was an unintentional, unexpected edge of anger in her tone.

He nodded. “In all honesty, at this stage nightmares are a good sign. It’s the ones who sleep soundly knowing the sort of things she now knows that one should truly worry about. But I am not here to discuss Miss Granger’s sleeping habits.”

“Why are you here, then?” Mary asked warily.

“Why do you think, insolent child? It couldn’t possibly be that you nearly _died_ on me, _again_. And not through the efforts of the Dark Lord or one of Miss Granger’s hare-brained schemes, but through sheer _stupidity_ , challenging a bloody _NEWT_ student to a duel! I don’t know the last time I saw something so bull-headedly _Gryffindor_! Why didn’t you just pay the little bint off, and then exact your revenge later, on your own terms?”

Mary felt herself flush deeply. “Because I didn’t think of that,” she admitted.

“ _Obviously_ ,” Snape said scathingly.

“I didn’t _mean_ to get into a duel! It just sort of _happened_ , and then I couldn’t back out without losing either way!”

“And I suppose you _had_ to escalate the fight to the level of semi-lethal spells?” he glared at her forbiddingly.

She couldn’t hold his gaze. She let her eyes drop to her blanket-covered knees. “Sending snakes after her was the only strategy I could think of besides just _running_ , and running wouldn’t have helped me or Dave – not in the long run.”

Snape was quiet for a long moment, and when Mary looked up, his eyes were closed, and he was pinching the bridge of his nose. Eventually he spoke again. “Be that as it may, I expect you to be able to judge when you are out of your depth. Slytherins do not escalate against an enemy who has us outmatched – we bow our heads, take our licks, and survive to fight another day.”

“I _did_ survive, though!” Mary defended herself weakly. “ _And_ Maia says Lilian says I haven’t lost face, even if I didn’t really win. I still have the respect of the House.”

“You. Nearly. Died. In a duel over a bloody book. I cannot express to you how _unacceptable_ this is.”

“It wasn’t about the book,” the teen pouted. “It was about them framing Dave for something he didn’t do.”

The professor sighed. “Oh, to be young and stupid again. _That_ is what Bletchley and the rest of those sodding morons _wanted_ you to think. Framing your client, the Muggleborn Snake, is the level they _wanted_ their little drama to play out upon. But _you had the power to refuse to acknowledge it_. By recognizing Bletchley’s claim as legitimate, you legitimized her power to affect you and your client. If you had dismissed that level of the game, refused to play by their rules, you could easily have avoided the vast majority of the conflict, pulled the rug out from under them, so to speak. But instead you played right into their hands, behaving as expected, defending Mr. Rhees in the most straightforward way possible, as you have done at every opportunity since he has entered the House.”

The third-year scowled. “What should I have done then?”

“For the record, I cannot _believe_ I am saying this,” Snape sneered, “but you _should_ have acted the part of the wealthy and entitled Heir Ascendant to House Potter! Given that you have consistently failed to do so, it would have thrown Miss Bletchley and her compatriots completely. Had you lost the duel, which you were almost guaranteed to do, you would have been required to pay restitution for the insult to House Bletchley _anyway_ , so it would have saved you a great deal of time and trauma to simply throw money at the problem in the first place. Dismissively telling the girl to send a bill to your solicitor would have effectively pulled the teeth of their little play, trivializing the attack and minimizing the interest of your peers. _Then_ , if she had pursued the drama, you would have been well within your rights to appeal to a higher authority, as she had refused your offer of restitution.

“If the book was truly rare and valuable, as Mr. Rhees claimed that Miss Bletchley insisted it was, there is a _very_ good chance that the elder Bletchleys are unaware that this so-called rare book is no longer in their family library, because any book rare enough to cause serious damage to yours and Mr. Rhees’ reputations by its theft is also far too valuable to be sent to Hogwarts. _Therefore,_ if offering to owl her parents to negotiate the return of the book and restitution directly didn’t cause her to back off, threatening to take the issue to myself or the Headmaster for arbitration most certainly would have done, given that any truly rare and valuable book is likely Restricted, Banned, or Anathema, and thus would be subject to confiscation at best and destruction at worst.

“If it turned out that Miss Bletchley _lied_ about the value of the book, which she might well have done, it would have been cause for _her_ to lose face, obviously catching her in a lie and a set-up, accusing the two of you under false pretenses, _and_ she would have been punished by myself or the Headmaster for attempting to frame a fellow student for theft, which is, in fact, a more heavily punishable offence! Foolish child,” he scoffed.

“They made it seem like it was a matter of honor,” Mary grumbled, feeling every bit the fool he named her for not having seen at least some of that in the first place. Not that she had known about rare books mostly being illegal, but she should have thought to involve a professor, like with Creevey. But she never would have _considered_ throwing money at the problem – no one had ever told her that was an option!

“ _Honor_ gets people _killed_ ,” Snape retorted sharply. “ _After_ all that, regardless of how it played out, when the immediate situation was resolved, you would have been free to pursue your revenge for her scheming at your leisure, with absolutely no call to risk life and limb over a childish plot to _embarrass_ you and your client in the Commons!”

Mary sighed, and squirmed fitfully under his stare – it wasn’t a glare. For the first time since he had begun his rant, his look seemed to hold more concern than scorn, as though he thought she really would choose the direct conflict, if she had a choice. “I’m sorry! Okay? They put me on the spot! I didn’t think of any of that!”

“Mary Elizabeth,” her Head of House said, in a tone deadly serious. “I shall tell you this only once: You have many, many enemies. Being the Girl Who Lived in Slytherin House; claiming the title of the Heir of Slytherin and bucking many of the expectations society held for its golden girl before your reappearance; and making it clear that you plan to have a voice and use your position in politics – yes, I heard about your appearance at the Wizengamot meeting – _all_ of that puts you in a unique and _dangerous_ position. Being put on the spot is no excuse for acting rashly and without thought for your own safety. Your first instinct cannot be to protect your honor or your client’s or anyone or any _thing_ other than yourself, because if _you_ die, or are incapacitated, those points are moot. You cannot save anyone else if you do not first save yourself. _Do you understand_?”

Mary nodded, shamefaced. She _knew_ all that. She did, really. Hadn’t that been how she survived the Dursleys for all those years? She had just got… overconfident, she supposed, since coming to Hogwarts. “Yes, sir,” she muttered to her knees. “Does this mean I have detention again?”

Snape sighed, leaning back in the visitor’s chair and crossing his legs at the ankles, straight out in front of him. “I don’t know. Do you think more detention would teach you not to act like a reckless dunderhead? I _had_ thought that you had taken the lesson to heart last time, but now I confess I am uncertain.”

“ _I_ thought last time was about ethics and not doing illegal things to other students and not trusting people more than I should,” the girl pouted, reminded of her disillusionment surrounding the idea that Snape was ultimately trustworthy. She still trusted him as her Head of House, of course, but she had long since given up on the idea that he thought of her any differently than the rest of his Slytherins, regardless of his friendship with her mother, and his claim that she ought to have been his goddaughter.

“It was _also_ about not getting caught up in the moment, rushing into dangerous plans without thinking them through!” the wizard pointed out sharply, though his tone softened as he added, after a pause, “I have been meaning to talk to you about your Final Paper. ‘ _I learned that I can’t trust allies or even friends with everything. I did not believe you would poison me, even to teach me a lesson, and I was obviously wrong,_ ’” he quoted. “Would I be correct in thinking that there has been a certain coolness toward me following that first detention?”

Mary felt the all the blood rush to her face (which was especially strange without the accompanying flush of heat). She still didn’t know why she had been so candid in that last detention. _Probably potioned again_ , she thought cynically, but she had no idea how or with what. “I – After… you know… the end of last year, when you invited me to be informal, and after, well… Quirrellmort, and _everything_ , I thought that… I know it’s stupid, but I thought you cared about me. For Lily’s sake,” she hastened to add, not daring to look up at the man who was surely going to laugh at her.

He didn’t. Instead, he sighed heavily. “I care about all of my students,” he said, too evenly.

“You know what I mean, sir,” she muttered to her blankets. “You said you should have been my godfather. I didn’t realize what that means to wizards until over the summer, and then I thought – but it was stupid. That was if things were different, and they aren’t, so I shouldn’t have expected you to treat me any differently than anyone else. It was presumptuous of me.”

“Tell me, do you think I would demonstrate the Patronus Charm for just _any_ student?” Mary could practically _hear_ the eye-roll in his acidic tone. “Do you think I would spend hours giving you tips on patronage and colluding with your ridiculous Ravenclaw friend to find an explanation of your misadventures with the Dark Lord, or go out of my way to answer your questions if I _didn’t_ care for you, in your own right? Would I be visiting you, here, now, in hospital, worried for your safety and the sanity of your future choices, if I did not care?”

She risked glancing up, and looked away again almost at once from the raw vulnerability on the stern Potions Master’s face.

“For Lily’s sake, I would have protected you,” he continued, ignoring her fleeting look. “I would have done everything in my power to save you from… _Quirrellmort_ and keep you out of the hands of the Death Eaters, even if you were the second coming of James Potter and I could see none of her in you. But I offered you information and informality on your own merit, and the strength of the secrets we share.

“I meant all that I implied, when I told you that Lily might well have made me your godfather, once upon a time. I was remiss in my duties to you over the course of your childhood, and for that I am sorry. My only excuse is that I am not accustomed to having such responsibilities as familial ties, and considered you better off wherever Dumbledore had hidden you away, without my presence interfering in your life. That may have been a mistake.

“Regardless of whether it was or was not, I cannot publically favor you over any of the other students any more than Minerva may, and in the case of your punishment for that ridiculous conspiracy, I would not have done, even if I could. It was in your best interests to learn those lessons, harsh though they may have seemed at the time. For that I will _not_ apologize, because, as you recognized in your essay, I _am_ your teacher, first and foremost. I have a duty to prepare you for the world outside of Hogwarts as best I can, and the world outside of Hogwarts is not a kind place.”

“Oh.” Mary didn’t know what to say to that. She got it. She really did, when he put it like that, comparing his actions to Aunt Minnie’s. Of _course_ it made sense that he couldn’t or wouldn’t treat her any differently than anyone else. But she didn’t think she could say that, and then explain why she had felt so lost and betrayed by his actions in the first place, at least not any better than she already had. It was such a long time ago, and so much had happened since then.

She realized suddenly that the silence was stretching between them, and scrambled for something, anything, to keep the conversation going. “What should I call you, then? As my godfather?” she finally asked, looking up again, genuinely curious. This had, after all, been a major preoccupation for her, over the summer.

Snape huffed out a little laugh, and smirked slightly. “I believe the customary familiar address for one’s godfather is _Uncle_ , though you will find that many of your peers use alternate languages to denote the distinction between their parents’ brothers and their godfather. I personally have always been fond of the Greek: _Theíos_. _Theía_ for your godmother.”

“Alice Longbottom,” Mary noted, avoiding addressing the confession of… affection (?) that seemed to hang heavily between them. “I tried to visit her over Christmas. It didn’t go so well,” she admitted ruefully.

“Both Frank and Alice Longbottom still reside at St. Mungo’s, do they not?”

The teen nodded. “I scared her, I think. Madam Longbottom and the healers… well, they said she mistook me for the witch who attacked them. Bellatrix Lestrange. Madam Longbottom even dug up a picture for me. It was…” she trailed off.

“Uncanny?” Snape suggested.

She nodded again. “Yeah.”

He sighed. “Well, I won’t say I don’t see it. I didn’t know her when she was your age, obviously, any more than Lady Longbottom would have – we were in the same year. But yes, there is a resemblance. You inherited the Black cheekbones. And the hair. And the _smirk_. But then, there are worse things to have inherited from the Blacks. The Weasleys seem to have got their penchant for chaos, for example,” he made a face. “Much as I do hate how you seem to have got the full measure of your father’s nobility and your mother’s hot-headed impetuousness, you did at least miss out on James’ entitled arrogance and Lily’s callousness, and the Black madness and the Dark Lord’s sadism, which were all traits Bellatrix shared. Rest assured, the resemblance is only… superficial.”

Mary couldn’t help but laugh slightly at his put-upon tone, relief bubbling up from somewhere inside of her. She hadn’t realized before he said it how much she had been wanting someone – _anyone_ – to confirm that she was nothing like the Death Eater she so resembled, at least in personality. “So really I’m like, two for four, on acceptable grandparents?”

“More like zero for three. Harrison is an unknown quantity, and both Charlus and Dorea Potter contributed to the spoilt pureblood pain in the arse that was James. He bore a striking and frankly disturbing resemblance to the young Draco Malfoy in personality, but with more of an inclination to cause trouble, and without the pureblood supremacy rhetoric.”

The girl winced at the comparison. “What about Lily?”

Snape gave her a funny, almost-nostalgic sort of smile. “Lily was very intelligent, outgoing and charismatic, but she had a very strong vindictive streak, a bad habit of gratuitous manipulation, and a rather weak sense of self.” Mary raised a questioning eyebrow at that. “She tried instinctively to be whatever she thought you wanted her to be in the moment,” the wizard explained. “She used to tell me that the Lily I knew was the witch behind the masks, but I don’t think she ever spent enough time alone to know what she was like when she wasn’t playing off of someone else’s expectations.”

“You make her sound like a boggart,” her daughter observed, suppressing a giggle.

The wizard gave her a crooked, genuine smile. “I suppose it’s not an altogether inappropriate comparison, if a boggart reflected the things you liked best about yourself, instead of your deepest fears. Though as far as I know, there was no legilimency involved.”

“I wish I could have met her,” Mary sighed. “Both of them, really, but the way you talk about Lily, I bet we would have been friends.”

“You probably would have been,” Snape admitted. “Miss Granger reminds me strongly of her in some ways, and Miss Moon in others.”

The teen tried to ask exactly how her mother and her Head of House had met, but she was interrupted by an enormous yawn.

“Go to sleep, Mary Elizabeth,” he said gently, renewing the warming charms on her blankets without being asked, and far more strongly than Hermione had done.

She almost instantly felt as though she was melting, her body relaxing into the heat she hadn’t even realized she was missing, overcome with drowsiness. She wondered idly if this was how snakes felt about sunning themselves, and if so, how they managed not to go into rhapsodies about the subject at every opportunity. She couldn’t imagine how cold she would have been come daybreak if Hermione and Snape hadn’t been here. She suspected that it would have been miserable.

“Thank you, _Theíos_ ,” she mumbled sleepily.

“You are very welcome, _Anipsiá_. Sleep well.”

She was fairly certain that she was unconscious before he reached the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My overuse of hyphens is now being curbed by the beta-editing skills of the fabulous badgerlady. All remaining typos, mis-used words and Americanisms are of course my fault, but I think she's done a fairly awesome job catching most of them, and I cannot thank her enough for doing so ;)


	28. Thinking Happy Thoughts

###  Thursday, 20 January 1994

#### DADA Classroom

Mary was released from Madam Pomfrey’s care on Wednesday morning, temperature stabilized and magic re-charged. She returned to a rather tense Slytherin House. About half of her House mates seemed to be wary of cheesing her off, and most were resentful of the threat against their Hogsmeade visit. A smaller group was upset because she had been punished much less severely than Bletchley.

She had received a note telling her to write an essay for Snape while she was sitting around the hospital wing on Tuesday, analyzing both the conflict and the duel for the mistakes she had made, and considering how things might have turned out otherwise if she had made different choices. However many hours this took (four, not including the long nap she took mid-essay) would be the number of hours he assigned as detention for the sake of formality. It was, Mary knew, a cop-out assignment on Snape’s part, seeing as she had already discussed those very points with him in the hospital wing. Bletchley, on the other hand, had been assigned to assist Filch every evening until the Easter holiday. Word was, she was lucky she hadn’t been expelled. She _had_ already had her seventeenth birthday, and the Headmaster was disinclined to give second chances to adult Slytherins who had used blatantly Dark and illegal spells on children four years their junior.

The three nervous and/or vaguely antagonistic groups were not mutually exclusive, which resulted in a rather small segment of Mary’s House mates treating her normally – mostly the ones who had backed her against Bletchley and most of the Quidditch team. Malfoy and Higgs had supported Bletchley, and were among the shifty, wary majority, but since Mary was excused from practice anyway, she wasn’t terribly concerned about how to deal with the awkwardness between them on the pitch. Of course, now that they were down to one match, and it was still over two months away, the practice schedule had been relaxed a bit, anyway – they now had Mondays and every other Thursday off.

This particular Thursday was an off day, and as such, Mary, Lilian, and Hermione had planned to meet Remus to begin Patronus lessons. Mary was determined not to miss it on account of her impromptu stay in the hospital wing, so she had more immediate (and, to her mind, more important) things to worry about than her House mates’ recurring, collective attitude problem. She had to come up with a way to explain her nearly getting killed in a fight to Emma and Catherine without sounding as stupid as she knew she had been. She had missed History, so she had to write a make-up essay for Professor D’Onofrio on whether the Statute of Secrecy should be maintained in the twenty-first century, along with catching up on the rest of Monday and Tuesday’s homework. And most importantly, she had to convince Remus that she was well enough to attempt to learn the very difficult and magically exhausting charm.

She had been psyching herself up to face the boggart-dementor since they had discussed its use on the train. If they put it off too long, she wasn’t sure she would be able to stand there and voluntarily face her worst fear, just to practice trying to drive it away.

She had, perhaps, overextended herself on her first day out of the Hospital wing, trying to impress him with her casting of Aspernor, a Light Repulsion Charm which was supposed to be highly effective against minor Dark Creatures. She had, however, managed to successfully knock back the Tatzelwurm they were practicing on, which was more than half the class had done. Remus had reluctantly agreed that he would see the three of them the following evening after dinner, so Mary considered this a win… even if it did result in her falling asleep in the library and drooling on her Transfiguration homework.

Time seemed to move more slowly than usual as they proceeded through Thursday’s lessons. Even Potions was a bit of a drag, and that was the most interesting part of the day: they were making a very complicated hair-color-changing potion, the point of which was not actually to dye their own and their friends’ hair whatever color they chose, but to illustrate the difficulties in creating a potion that targeted only a single aspect of a person – in this case, their hair – without touching any other, such as their skin. Neville had very nearly dyed them green adding three ingredients out of order. Fortunately, he seemed to have done something else wrong along the way as well, so the exploded potion affected only their clothes. Mary managed to save her own brew from the splash-back with a quick shield charm, but her uniform was a total loss. Neville had apologized profusely, of course, but on a scale of Longbottom Potions Disasters, a green uniform was fairly low priority. At least it hadn’t been caustic. Still, that had been the highlight of the day. The rest of it had gone even more slowly as she waited impatiently for the hours until half eight to pass.

Finally ( _finally!_ ), the appointed hour had arrived. Mary practically dragged Lilian and Hermione from the library to the Defense classroom, which Lilian was complaining about when they arrived.

“Why are you so excited about this?” she demanded.

“Do you not _want_ to learn how to keep the dementors away?”

Hermione laughed at Mary’s abject confusion. “Of course we do, but you’ve been positively _driven_ about it!”

“I’m not going to feel safe getting back in the air during a match until I know we’re not going to have a repeat of that first one,” the seeker admitted with a sigh.

“You know Flint won’t let you take a wand out on the pitch,” Lilian pointed out doubtfully.

Mary raised an eyebrow at her. “We are talking about the same Flint, right? Captain Marcus ‘Just don’t get caught and I had nothing to do with this’ Flint?”

“Ah… point.”

“Do I even want to know?” Hermione asked, eyeing the two Slytherins suspiciously.

They answered in tandem, without even needing a look to confirm: “No.”

Remus, at the front of the classroom with a large packing crate beside him, cleared his throat. “Take it from an old Marauder, Miss Granger – sometimes it’s best to just _not ask_.”

“Curiosity killed the cat-girl,” Lilian quipped.

“Oh, shut up, you!”

“Lils! Maia! Patronus charm time!” Mary interrupted their squabble.

Remus sighed. “You mustn’t be too disappointed if you can’t manage it, Mary,” he reminded her. “It _is_ an NE level spell – it requires a great deal of power, and a degree of concentration that most witches and wizards can’t muster in their fifth year, let alone their third.”

Mary parked her hands on her hips and glared at the werewolf. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to try to learn!”

“There is a very good chance that even if you _do_ manage it, it won’t be in time for your next Quidditch match,” he pointed out.

“Are we going to do this or not?” Mary asked impatiently.

“All right, all right. So. The spell is the Patronus Charm. You all know what it does, and how it works?”

“Of course,” Hermione smirked.

Remus rolled his eyes. “Humor me.”

The Ravenclaw did, of course. “The Patronus Charm is a Light Arts spell. It was developed in Etruria in the fourth century, and was classified as Advanced or NE level by the International Confederation of Wizards in the eighteenth century. The Patronus itself is a semi-corporeal construct of light magic, anathema to semi-corporeal dark creatures, including the dementor, the lethifold, and the vampire in its shadow-state. Historians think that it was initially developed to combat shadow-walking in the Italic Vampire Wars, and later adopted to repel other dark creatures.

“The incantation is Expecto Patronum: I expect, hope for, or await a protector. The wand movement is an open reversed-infinity, combined with an up-swoop at the seventh mark, and a quick downward slash at the end. The last syllable falls on the up-swoop. From what I understand, the key movement is the up-down ‘forward attack’ slash, at the end – it’s the same as is used to direct Oppugnated objects or Fiendfyre – so if you have to point-cast it, that’s the bit you would want to keep.

“The intention is protection, and the necessary state of mind is neutral to positive. The more positive a memory you can think of while casting, the better your chances of a successful cast. That’s actually the most difficult part of using the Patronus to repel dementors – they either consume or repel positive memories and thoughts, so it takes great strength of mind to think happy thoughts in spite of their presence.

“The Patronus seems to sap the strength of dementors, and they will normally retreat rather than allow it to come into contact with them. The text I consulted suggested that happiness, hope, _joie de vivre_ , and the need to protect someone or something shape and empower the construct, but it is the light versus dark magic aspect that dementors find intolerable, much as Black Mages find phoenix song painful to hear, and dark wizards find it uncomfortable to cast light magic. As entities shaped from darkness, corruption, and death, dementors find the magic of light, renewal, and life painful to endure.

“There is a high initial threshold for casting the spell – ideally eighty-one thaums – but the input necessary to maintain the spell is much lower, especially when faced with an actual _threat_ against which the Patronus is effective.

“Oh, honestly! It’s all in the library!” she finished, glaring at all of the others, including the professor, who were staring at her with varying degrees of incredulity.

Lilian recovered first. “Fits with what Professor Snape told us.” She shrugged.

Mary was caught up on the daunting idea of casting a spell that required eighty times as much power as a standard Lumos, _plus_ additional energy input to maintain. Even the hardest transfiguration they had learned so far needed only forty to fifty thaums when cast properly. She rather wished that Hermione had left the energy requirement out. It seemed easier when she didn’t actually know how difficult it was.

“None of that is anywhere in the open part of the library,” Remus noted. He sounded almost suspicious. Mary wondered if Hermione had given away her reading into Dark Arts.

“It _is_ in the Restricted Section, though,” the Ravenclaw said, flushing slightly. “And I asked Professor Flitwick if he knew anything about the charm while I was looking up dementors for Professor D’Onofrio.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Well, be _that_ as it may, from the perspective of having actually cast the spell, I can tell you that it is, indeed, much easier to cast if you are able to focus on a single, very happy memory. It is _also_ easier to cast if you are in danger. The added danger of being near a dementor may or may not be enough to outweigh the difficulties in concentrating on a good memory. It depends on the person, so far as I can tell. But I’ve seen too many people freeze when faced with a _boggart_ , let alone a dementor, so as we discussed on the train, it’s best to learn with a live target, if possible.”

“Will you demonstrate?” Hermione asked, practically bouncing in place. Out of the three of them, she was the only one who _hadn’t_ seen a Patronus up close.

Remus blushed. “I suppose.” He took several steps back to give them a bit of space, then made an abbreviated wand-motion, a side-to-side flick, and then a sharp rise followed by a down-slash. “Expecto Patronum!”

A silver mist shot from the tip of his wand, coalescing into the ghostly shape of an enormous wolf. It appeared seated, and stood to pad over to the girls, nuzzling at them and driving away the hint of discontent that seemed to linger in every room of the school anymore, before disintegrating into silver sparks and fading away.

Lilian smirked. “Is it a bit… odd, for a werewolf to have a wolf Patronus?”

Remus opened his mouth to answer, but Hermione beat him to it. “Don’t be rude, Lili! I’m sure the two things have nothing to do with each other.”

“Yeah,” Mary added drily. “With a name like _Remus Lupin_ , why _wouldn’t_ he have a wolf Patronus?”

The professor dragged a hand over his face and muttered something like, “Why did I volunteer for this?” as Lilian snorted with half-suppressed laughter, and Hermione said sternly, “That’s got nothing to do with it, either!”

“Miss Granger is correct,” Remus said in his most professorial tone. (“Of course,” Lilian inserted. Mary elbowed her in the ribs.) “The shape of the Patronus is said to be based on your personality, or your soul.”

“Snape said it was based on the memory, and, well… what you’d die to protect?” the youngest of the trio stated questioningly.

Remus shrugged, more than accustomed by now to Slytherin students interrupting lessons with ‘Professor Snape says,’ and ‘my cousin so-and-so told me,’ or the ever-popular ‘this one time, when we were on vacation.’ He had developed a real knack for expanding on whatever they said to reconcile his own (normally briefer and more age appropriate) explanations with the ones they volunteered, without directly contradicting anyone.

“Exactly which part of your personality motivates the shape isn’t exactly clear. They tend not to change over the course of one’s life – at most they shift once or twice, and that’s associated with love – unrequited love, usually. I _do_ know you can cast them with different memories, and achieve the same shape, so it’s most likely not the memory specifically, but the emotion behind it that matters.”

Hermione nodded. “That makes sense.”

“We just need to think of something happy, then?” Lilian asked.

“Yep. Feel free to discuss it, if you want.”

“What’s yours, Remus?” Mary asked. She had been periodically trying to think of a happy memory, or a memory of something she would die to protect, since she and Lilian had spoken to Professor Snape about it before the holiday, and she wasn’t sure she had any that were good enough.

Remus gave them girls a small, nostalgic smile. “When your father confronted me about being a werewolf, and all of my friends accepted me regardless of the Curse.”

Lilian very obviously bit her tongue on a comment.

“What?” Remus asked warily.

“Nothing,” was the too-quick response.

“What were you going to say?” he asked, a smile slowly growing as the bold Slytherin tried not to laugh.

The Snake cracked, smirking broadly. “It’s – You’re – That memory is just so _cute_ and _sweet_. You’re like… the anti-werewolf. I have never met anyone less werewolf-like than you, professor.”

“Erm… thank you?”

“Don’t be daft, Lili – he _is_ a werewolf. Obviously your preconceived notions of what a werewolf should be like are wrong!”

“Hermione!” Mary interrupted, before her older friend could begin a rant on werewolf rights and the importance of not being prejudiced. “What memory are you using for the Patronus?”

“Oh! I thought I’d try getting my Hogwarts letter. I, well… I thought I was mad, before, you know. I had a psychologist, and everything. It was such a relief knowing I wasn’t. And magic – magic is _amazing._ I would fight to protect magic, if I had to.”

“What about you, Miss Moon?” Remus asked, obviously cottoning on to Mary’s very cunning plan to get the lesson back on track.

“I don’t know. My first puppy, maybe?”

“Most people find that pets aren’t a strong enough connection – maybe family?”

Lilian shook her head. “I don’t have many good memories with my family,” she admitted.

Remus sighed. “All right. We’ll try the puppy, then, and see where that gets you. Mary?”

“Flying,” she said firmly.

“Flying?”

Mary nodded. It was the best she had come up with. “It’s like freedom.”

“All right. Well, let’s practice the wand movement and the incantation a few times, then, and once you’ve got it down, we’ll try it with the boggart dementor.” He demonstrated the full wand movement for them, and they repeated it several times, and then the incantation.

Much to Mary’s surprise, she managed to wring a wisp of silvery light from her wand the first time she tried putting them together, as she focused on the sensation of the world falling away beneath her, and the feeling that she could go _anywhere_ , and no one could stop her. She was so startled that it dissipated almost at once. Hermione and Lilian looked a bit put out that they hadn’t managed it as well, and they spent the next forty minutes repeating the process, brainstorming new memories and then trying the spell. Eventually they all managed at least a bit of silver smoke, and Remus suggested that they should try it on the boggart-dementor, to see if the aura of danger would help spur their protective instincts.

“Remember,” Lilian quipped. “If the boggart goes out of control, just stun Liz!”

“Do _not_ do that,” Remus said forbiddingly, obviously not pleased to be reminded of his first lesson. “One of us will simply step closer if necessary and distract the creature.”

Mary stepped forward, so that she was nearest the packing crate, with Hermione and Lilian on either side of her, just a few feet further back.

“Remember, keep your mind firmly on your happy memory.”

“’Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings,’” Hermione said nervously. It was obviously a quote, though Mary didn’t know the source.

“Quite. Ready?”

“Just do it, Remus!” Mary snapped, more than a little nervous herself. She was finding it rather difficult to concentrate on the feeling of flying when her mother’s voice at the moment of her murder was waiting on the other side of the thin wooden slats.

Without another word, the Defense Professor shot a spell at the packing case, and its lid flipped off.

A dementor rose slowly from the box, its hooded face turned toward Mary, one glistening, scabbed hand gripping its cloak. The lamps around the classroom flickered and went out. The dementor stepped from the box and started to sweep silently toward the girls, drawing a deep, rattling breath.

“Expecto Patronum!” Lilian’s voice called, behind Mary and just slightly to her left. Hermione echoed her on the other side.

“Expecto Patronum!” Mary repeated along with the others, waving her wand, but she knew before she had finished the first word of the phrase that it wasn’t going to work. She couldn’t concentrate on… whatever she was supposed to be thinking about. Not when her mind was filled with white fog and her mother’s voice echoing silently – and yet overwhelmingly loud, inside her head: _“Not Mary! Not Mary! Please -!”_

And then someone growled “Sod it,” and the mist was gone with a crack, as was the dementor. Hermione had stepped forward, and the boggart had changed: The all-too-familiar blue eyes and charming smile of the teenage Tom Riddle were staring at her from across the room. His arm was around a version of Hermione who might have been prettier than the original, if not for the jet-black eyes and the darkness obviously creeping through her veins under death-pale skin. Necromancer-Hermione, like the necromancer version of Blaise Theo had shown them. Riddle smirked at the girls, then turned and whispered something in necromancer-Hermione’s ear. The other half of the boggart began to raise its wand, training it on Mary and Lilian.

“R-riddikulus!” the real Hermione said quickly, but the stuttered spell had no effect on the boggart.

“Is that the best you can do, _Maia-bee_?” it tutted at her. Riddle’s voice. “Perhaps one of you others ought to give it a go. The sheep in wolf’s clothing? The young murderer? What about you, _granddaughter_?” The last word was hissed, Parsel.

Mary blanched. There was _no way_ she was letting that _thing_ reveal _that_ secret! “Go to hell, you fucking lunatic! _Riddikulus!_ ”

There was another _crack_ , and the Riddle-and-Hermione boggart was replaced by a _very_ red-faced Ginny Weasley, all dressed up like she was attending a pureblood tea party.

“ _Not_ funny!” the boggart stomped its foot. But it really was. Lilian was sniggering off to Mary’s left, and Mary herself was laughing freely. Remus started to move forward to force it to change again, but it – the boggart with Riddle’s personality and Ginny’s face – flipped him the bird. He froze, clearly astonished. “Bugger off! I’m going!” the boggart snapped.

It stalked back to the box and, with a final, scornful glare at the lot of them, closed the lid with a bang.

All four of them watched the box for a long second, and then Lilian snorted, and as though that were some sort of signal, they burst into laughter simultaneously.

“Who even _was_ that?” Remus asked, when he got himself back under control.

The question set off another wave of laughter from Mary and Hermione. Lilian, who knew the story, but hadn’t seen the young Tom Riddle’s face, was the one who answered. “I, um… I think it was the Dark Lord. Riddle. He was possessing Ginny, you see…” she trailed off into another fit of giggles as Hermione nodded.

Mary literally had tears in her eyes, she was laughing so hard. “What the hell, Maia?” she asked. “Do you really think Tom Riddle is worse than a dementor?”

Hermione shuddered. “It made me remember him – _last_ time, my boggart was _failure_. I mean, it probably still was, but… It wasn’t like that, before.”

Remus was just staring at the girls, as though he had never seen a witch before in his life. “Are you telling me that _that_ was Lord Moldyshorts?”

Mary nodded. “Remember, I told you he was possessing Ginny?”

“ _Yes_ …”

“Well, um…”

“I ended up with a copy of Ginny’s memories of last year,” Hermione admitted. “And before you ask, you _really_ don’t want to know how.”

Remus’ eyes narrowed. “Someday I will no longer be your professor, Miss Granger. And when that day comes, I want a full accounting of what the bloody _fuck_ is going on in this school! That goes _double_ for you, Mary!”

All three of the girls laughed. Mary couldn’t tell if he was more upset that there were possibly dangerous things going on, or if he was offended by the fact that they were keeping secrets from an ex-Marauder. “I’ll write you come July first,” she promised. She shot a quick look at Hermione, who shrugged. “With as many secrets as I’m allowed to tell.”

The werewolf professor _harrumphed._ “Fine. Now, everyone have a chocolate frog.” He passed around a box. “There’s nothing like chocolate to dispel the effects of dark magic on the mind.”

“Did you guys get anything?” Mary asked, as all four of them indulged in the hopping chocolates.

Lilian shook her head. “I got distracted by the memories.”

“Me too.”

“I thought I had a wisp of something,” Hermione claimed, “but it could have been just more of that white fog-stuff.”

“Are we going to go again?” Lilian asked. Mary was on her feet and headed back for the center of the room again before anyone else could answer.

“This time _I_ will intercept the boggart if necessary, I think,” Remus said, but he did not object to the second attempt.

The girls tried and failed again. They sat around trying to think of happier memories for fifteen minutes. Mary decided to try to use Christmas with the Grangers instead. _Acceptance_ , she thought, _like Remus_.

But the third try was a failure as well, and Remus said absolutely not when it came to a fourth go-round. His actual words were, “You lot may be some sort of masochists, but three dementor exposures in half an hour is quite enough for this old man. It’s just gone nine, anyway, and I’ve still got marking to do for tomorrow.” The trio, with a bit of good-natured ribbing over his procrastination, left him to it.

Mary decided on the way back to the dorms that she was glad he had made them stop: she hadn’t realized until they had to walk _all_ the way back to the dungeons how utterly drained the three attempts had left her. She and Lilian were practically tripping over each other. She could only imagine how _Hermione_ felt: the Ravenclaw had to go _up_ stairs to get to _her_ room.

###  Friday, 28 January 1994

#### Remus Lupin’s Office

As Mary had become far more aware since November, the Thursday of the week that followed the first attempt at Patronus lessons was the day of the full moon. Moonrise was so early in the evening that they didn’t even see Remus at dinner for most of the week – he was, Slytherin quietly supposed, already transformed, drugged with Wolfsbane and warded into his office or something.

Mary was still excused from Quidditch practice and there were no detentions or extra Charms lessons to contend with, which left her with an almost uncomfortable amount of free time. After the constant rush of the previous term, she hardly knew what to do with herself on a free afternoon anymore.

Professor Flitwick had asked her to remain behind after Dueling Club on Sunday, where she was given a rather stern talking-to about her impromptu honor duel the previous weekend. The tiny professor seemed to think that her time in the hospital wing was sufficient outright punishment for this particular offence, but he did warn her that participating in the Dueling Club was a privilege, not a right: if he caught wind of her fighting outside of sanctioned, supervised duels, she would no longer be welcome.

Mary was torn between relief that she wasn’t to be punished more severely and outrage that she could be banned from the club _she_ had pushed to start for something that wasn’t really her fault, but she held her tongue and promised that she had no intention of using the dueling skills the professor was teaching her against her fellow students. If it came down to self-defense, though (or defending Dave against the other Slytherins) she privately suspected that she would sacrifice her membership in the Dueling Club to protect herself.

By Monday, Hermione, who seemed to have resolved to spend more time with her friends since she and Mary had caught up over break, had managed to wrangle a few tips on scrying from Snape, and had dragged her Slytherin friends to the Room of Requirement on the seventh floor to attempt to practice the obscure art. They didn’t get very far at all, seeing as the first step in reaching a trance state was meditating. Neither Lilian nor Hermione were very patient people, and the youngest of the trio was more interested in the practice room, which somehow shaped itself to its users’ needs, than the divination. Snape had, apparently, recommended it. As Hermione had mentioned over break, it was the same room where the Mabon ritual had been held, though it had then been filled with a small forest. It seemed a waste to make it take the shape of what amounted to an unusually cozy sitting room when it could be _anything._ She had decided almost at once that she would have to find the time to explore it a bit more, but despite the lack of other extracurricular activities, she did not find the opportunity that week.

Later that very evening, Slytherin house was fully distracted from the lingering irritation surrounding the fallout from the Potter-Bletchley duel by the fact that the full moon – the _first_ full moon since they had learned that _Professor Lupin is a werewolf_ – was fast approaching. Mary had been hoping that the silver lining to the most recent bout of Intra-House discomfort would be that no one would even remember that little fact, but as things transpired, it was the other way around. “Just to be on the safe side,” because the prefects didn’t know exactly where Remus would be or what protections were in place to keep him confined in wolf form, every member of the house was expected to abide by an early curfew for two days on either side of the full moon.

This meant that they were escorted back to the Commons by the prefects immediately after dinner every evening from Tuesday through Saturday. Thursday’s Quidditch practice was re-scheduled for the following Monday (which Mary was pleased about, because she would be back in the air by then), and no one was allowed to go out until breakfast unless they had a legitimate excuse, like detention or Slythering 101, and were escorted by a pair of prefects. (What the rest of the school thought about this, or whether they even noticed, Mary wasn’t sure.)

The whole arrangement was perfectly ridiculous: They had made it through the first three full moons of the year with no incidents, after all. It wasn’t as though Remus was just _wandering the halls_ as a werewolf! He might not even be in the school at all! But Mary hadn’t actually thought to ask him what precautions were in place and, even if she had, the prefects would probably still have wanted to verify them independently, so in the interests of not causing even more tensions within the House, she hadn’t complained. She _had_ decided that she should visit Remus the morning after the full moon, and assure him that even though her House mates were acting like arseholes of the highest order, she truly didn’t mind that he was a werewolf.

Unfortunately, the werewolf professor wasn’t in the Great Hall that morning. It wasn’t until Mary had checked both his office and his classroom that she realized he was probably still a wolf somewhere: it was still dark out, and the moon hadn’t fully set.

She didn’t manage to catch up with him until nearly the end of lunch, when she found him in his office, prepping for his afternoon classes.

She knocked gently on the half-open door. He invited her in with a rather harried expression. “What is it, Mary?”

“I come bearing gifts,” she announced, somewhat taken aback by his short tone.

“Oh. Um… thanks?” Remus’ confusion was equally evident in his tone and on his face as he accepted the bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans she had ordered from Honeydukes. “What’s the occasion?”

The girl shrugged. “I just kind of wanted to make sure you were okay. And, um… apologize.”

The professor continued to look baffled. “What for?”

She made an involuntary noise of frustration. “My House mates are all idiots!”

Remus gave her a very small, very tired smile. “I don’t really have time for twenty questions, Mary…”

“So you… you haven’t even noticed?”

“Noticed _what_?”

“The prefects, um...”

Remus looked at his watch in a rather significant way, then continued shuffling through folders and scrolls. “I’m still listening, I promise, but I really do have to get ready for class.”

“We’re not allowed to go out alone after moonrise until the prefects figure out what precautions have been taken for, you know. Your condition. We’ve had early curfew the last three nights.”

The werewolf looked up to see the worried expression on her face, and sighed deeply. “Oh, well...”

“That’s all you have to say? ‘Oh, well’? Did you even know?”

He ran a hand through his prematurely greying hair. “What do you want me to say, Mary? No, I didn’t know, but it’s not exactly _surprising_.” He added something under his breath that might have been ‘bloody Severus.’

“They’re being completely unreasonable!”

“They’re _really_ not,” he corrected her. “They’ve kept it a secret, which is more than I could have hoped for, and, well… there _are_ precautions in place: wolfsbane, wards, an Unbreakable Vow – though to be honest I’m not sure that last one will bind the Wolf. Not exactly the sort of thing you can test. But it’s not as though they’ve been publicized, anyway.”

Mary gave an irritable huff. “That’s not the point! Even if it was just the potion, you’d be safe, right? And you don’t even have to transform unless it’s the actual moon, do you?”

“No, I don’t, but I _could_ , at least the three nights of the moon, if I lost control enough. The potion inhibits the first and fifth – the wolf is simply too weak to force the transformation so far out from the moon so long as I take it.”

“So why didn’t you come to dinner on Tuesday, then?” the girl asked irritably.

Her professor rolled his eyes. “I was trying to get ahead on lesson plans and marking, since _someone_ had to cover my first class this morning – and he used the lack of a lesson plan last time to deviate from the schedule. Bastard.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Remus repeated, slightly sarcastically. “You know, I’m not supposed to say this, but your Head of House is a dick.”

Mary couldn’t help but snigger slightly. The ex-Marauder had a gift for comedic delivery, even when he was insulting people she liked. “I don’t know that most of the House would disagree, actually,” she admitted. “He can be nice when he wants to be, though.”

“Severus Snape? _Nice_? Have you been _confunded_?” He squinted suspiciously at her eyes.

“No, of course not!” she protested. “Are you ever going to tell me why the two of you hate each other so much?”

Remus shook his head briefly, his eyes suddenly back on his papers. “I don’t hate him.”

“Why he hates you, then!”

“No,” the werewolf said firmly, despite the obvious exhaustion in his voice. Apparently he was too tired to try to change the subject properly. “It was a long time ago, and… just… no.”

The Slytherin groaned. “ _Fine._ I will find out eventually, though!”

The professor snorted. “You get your stubbornness from your father,” he observed.

“Professor McGonagall said I got that from my mum,” Mary smirked.

“She was pretty stubborn, too, but she had nothing on Jamie – this is the kid who dragged Peter Pettigrew kicking and screaming through the Animagus transformation. Lily would lose interest in things after a time, but I don’t think I ever saw James give up on _anything_ once he set his mind on it.”

The teenager grinned. One of the best things about spending time with Remus was the casual mentions of her parents. But that reminded her: “Hey, you never told me, what were Peter and Black’s animagus forms?”

The bells that signaled the end of lunch started ringing as she asked, and Remus began shoving folders and scrolls into his briefcase before answering, somewhat distractedly. “Peter – Wormtail – he was a rat, and Siri- _Black_ – he was a dog – Padfoot.” He ushered her toward the office door. “Come on, you lot get all sorts of free periods, but I’m expected to be teaching right now…”

###  Monday, 31 January 1994

#### Hogwarts’ Library

When Slytherin’s (mostly) voluntary house arrest ended on Saturday morning, Mary took full advantage of what felt like her first moment of freedom since her duel, testing the capabilities of the fascinating new Room and the Firebolt at the same time.

It was brilliant. She had no idea how, but somehow the Room was bending space so that she could race off in what _felt_ like an absolutely straight line, headed left from the door along an endless corridor, and yet somehow loop around to find it coming up on her left again, after several minutes’ flight at top speed. She could make obstacles, pushing out from the walls and ceiling, or twist the passageway to be more like a cave or a tunnel than a track. After an hour or so, she got really clever and asked the Room to give her things to dodge that she wasn’t expecting. To her utter delight, it managed to create little gun-towers, shooting what seemed to be tennis balls covered in red chalk at her. She was less delighted when the first of these hit her, sending up a cloud of obscuring dust and causing her to run headlong into a nearly-invisible projection extending half-way across her course. Thankfully, the obstacle was somewhat gelatinous and semi-solid, rather than stone like the wall it resembled, or else she might have had _another_ broken arm. As it was, she spent nearly twenty minutes trying to extricate herself from it before she realized that she could just ask the room to let her down.

On Sunday, Lilian and Hermione accompanied her, and the older Slytherin transformed the Room into a gravity-free space at least as large as a muggle gymnasium. The three of them had more fun than Mary had known was possible bouncing around and trying to stun each other in emulation of the Battle Game from the book Hermione had given Mary for Christmas in their very first year. It was even harder than she would have expected, trying to aim while spinning wildly through the air.

Monday passed quickly between classes and the resumption of Quidditch practice, the only real event of note being Luna Lovegood’s invitation for Mary and Lilian to join her for the celebration of Imbolc, which would take place at midnight the following day. She had sought them out in the library, and they could hardly say no. Hermione was rather put out that she had not been invited as well.

The fey Ravenclaw had quirked her head to the side for a moment, and her shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Hermione Jean,” she whispered, mindful of the lurking librarian, “Imbolc is the celebration of the _Youthful_ Power – Honesty, Innocence and Naiveté. Your soul is not a child’s soul, and your choices have carried you far into her Dark Sister’s realm.”

The older Ravenclaw’s face had drained of all color as Lilian looked on in confusion and Mary with no small measure of concern. “What do you know?” she asked, her voice sharp and quiet.

Luna gave her House mate a small, disconcerting smile and stared off slightly into the distance rather than focusing on Hermione’s face as she answered: “More than I need to, and less than I want to… except when it’s the other way around. Don’t worry so much, Hermione Jean. Those who would believe won’t listen, and those who would listen wouldn’t believe, and of all who hear, none comprehend, so it is hardly worth speaking at all.”

“Luna…”

The youngest girl sighed, her gaze suddenly not only focused, but sharp. “Your secrets are safe with me, Hermione Jean.”

Hermione did not look very reassured but, before she could object in some way, Lilian interrupted. “What secrets?”

The brunette gave an exasperated sigh, but the little blonde laughed. “Secrets aren’t secrets if they’re _told_ , Lilian Grace.”

The bold Slytherin pouted at the younger girl before addressing the object of the secrets in question. “Why does she get to know and I don’t?”

“ _I_ certainly didn’t tell her!” Hermione defended herself. “How does Luna know anything? She just _does_. It’s rather irritating, actually.”

Luna gave her a funny little half-smile. “Irritation amuses me; mystery amuses you: a well-balanced interaction on the whole. You may observe, if you like, but whether you know it or not, your Choice has been made, on this axis, at least.”

“Do you know what they’re talking about?” Lilian asked Mary.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Hermione asked irritably.

Mary suspected that Luna had been referencing Hermione’s exploratory Dark Arts reading, but she certainly didn’t want to admit that she knew that particular secret when Lilian didn’t, and risk the ire of both of her friends as well as Snape, who had told her not two weeks before not to go spreading the secret around. Instead, she deliberately misinterpreted the question. “I think they’re back on Imbolc, now.”

Luna shrugged, ignoring the Slytherins. “We are none of us creatures of all dark or all light, but Eve chose Knowledge over Innocence, and you would do the same, would you not? I expect I shall see you all tonight, then. Scrying Tower, just before midnight.”

“That’s not what I – oh, never mind. Yes, Luna. Midnight. Scrying Tower. Which one is that again?” Lilian asked, exasperated.

“The one where the air is clearer, and Sight is paramount: the sounds of the castle don’t reach it, and you can see the whole grounds, if you care to look.”

Surprisingly, Mary thought she might know which tower the younger girl meant; she had stumbled across it her first year, at Yule, and spent the day meditating there. “The one off the sixth-floor corridor with the statue of the Children of Cerridwen? There’s like, an endless spiral stair, and then a little round room at the top, with windows and benches all around?”

Luna nodded eagerly. “Yes, the Scrying Chamber. It’s the only place in the school where one can see past the anti-scrying wards.”

“There are anti-scrying wards on the castle?”

The younger Ravenclaw looked slightly surprised at Hermione’s outburst. “Of course there are! Daddy says they’re to stop people spying on the school, but they stop the school spying out, as well.”

“Is _that_ why I’ve been having so much trouble trying to figure out this trance thing?”

The younger Ravenclaw smirked. “No, _that_ is an entirely different problem.” She wandered away without elaborating, leaving Hermione to chase after her, demanding an explanation.

“Should we be worried about Maia killing her one of these days?” Mary asked, mostly rhetorically.

Lilian answered anyway, stifling a chuckle as Madam Pince glared at their table. “Um… _probably_ not? But then, I thought Jeanie knew about Lune’s sense of humor. You’d think she’d realize she’s only winding her up…” She trailed off pensively for a long moment. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they’re flirting, but if Lune is, I don’t think Jeanie’s realized it.”

“Wait – you think Luna’s interested in _Maia_? She’s like, _twelve_.”

It was strange to imagine wanting to date or snog someone herself, or whatever it was that you were supposed to want to do when you were _interested_ in them, let alone thinking of someone younger than herself dwelling on those sorts of thoughts. (Much less _Luna_ , who hardly seemed to live in the same world as the rest of them half the time: it was a bit odd thinking of the little Ravenclaw doing anything so… _normal_ as flirting.)

Apparently Lilian didn’t agree. “So? This is Luna we’re talking about, and anyway, we’re only a year older. I’m sure I’ve seen you checking out Snark’s arse in his Quidditch robes, not to mention the way you practically idolized Envy all of last spring.”

Mary squirmed uncomfortably under her friend’s gaze. “I never had a crush on Envy. I just wanted to learn all her tricks before she left the team for her OWLs.” She ignored the comment about Snark, mostly because she didn’t know how to explain that as much as she enjoyed watching him fly, she didn’t want to date him or anything.

Unfortunately, Lilian wasn’t quite so willing to let it go. She gave the younger girl a positively evil smirk before she said, “What about Snark, then? And didn’t you tell me you would’ve said yes when Kirke asked you to Hogsmeade if you could have done?”

“Kirke’s nice. Out of all the boys who asked me, he was the only one it wouldn’t have been awkward to spend the day with,” she pointed out reasonably.

“He’s also _very_ fit.”

Mary could feel her face heating up. That was true. He was generally considered to be one of the best-looking boys in third, fourth and fifth years. “He is, but that doesn’t mean I _fancy_ him. Same for Snark.”

“Well who _do_ you fancy, then? There has to be _someone_.”

Gods and Powers, this was embarrassing. “No, there’s not.”

“There _has_ to be,” Lilian insisted. “Is it Blaise? Diggory? Daphne? Ginny? Draco? Oh, Merlin, it’s not Dave, is it?”

“Ew, no! Dave’s like… a little kid! And no, no, no, no, and Circe, no, _definitely_ not Draco – besides, you two are dating, remember?”

The older girl rolled her eyes. “Hardly. Come on, give me a hint! Guys or girls? Ooh, is it a teacher? Is it Professor D’Onofrio?”

“No! Look, I don’t fancy anyone, okay? End of story!” Was that really so hard to believe?

Apparently it was. In true _Witch Weekly_ Reporting fashion, Lilian had decided that Mary’s more vehement denial of her affections for Draco (as compared to everyone else she suggested) meant that she was trying to desperately to conceal a crush on the pointy-faced ponce. While the younger girl supposed that was better than her best friend thinking there was something weird or wrong with her because she truly didn’t fancy anyone at the moment, it was more than a bit disconcerting that Lilian absolutely did _not_ believe her when she said she didn’t. And it was more than a bit irritating when she pulled Blaise and Pansy into the game of trying to figure out ‘Mary Potter’s Secret Crush’ over dinner.

Mary thought it showed great restraint that she refrained from stabbing the older girl with her fork over that particular decision. Blaise obviously wasn’t taking it very seriously, making suggestions like Percy Weasley and Hagrid, but Pansy definitely was, which Mary was certain meant that the whole Castle would be spouting rumors about her (nonexistent) love life by breakfast.

###  Tuesday, 1 February 1994 (Imbolc)

#### Scrying Tower

Despite Lilian’s teasing (and the fact rumors had, indeed, sprung up in the wake of said teasing), Mary couldn’t really avoid her or give her the silent treatment the following day, as they _had_ both agreed to attend Luna’s Imbolc celebration. They were the last to arrive, the dungeons being much further from the Scrying Tower than Ravenclaw or Gryffindor; to Mary’s slight surprise, Ginny had apparently been invited as well.

It was also a bit of a surprise to see Thomas, Kirke, and Lara, as well as Aerin and Hermione. For some reason she hadn’t realized that the younger Ravenclaw spent as much time with her fourth-year House mates as she apparently did.

Thomas, a rather quiet, intense boy, spoke up as soon as she and Lilian arrived, before they could even finish removing their footfall-silencing and scent-reducing charms. They didn’t quite have the hang of Disillusionment, the latest Sneaking Spell, but as long as they didn’t actually walk into the same corridor as Mrs. Norris, Filch, or a prefect patrol, visibility hardly mattered. “Hey Lu, we’re all here now. Are you going to tell us why, or not?” He sounded a bit nervous. Perhaps he didn’t like to be breaking curfew?

“I’ve already _told_ you, I need your help to balance a ritual.”

“Yeah, princess, you mentioned that,” Kirke drawled. He was always far more self-assured than Thomas, which was probably part of the reason so many people liked him. “But what does the ritual _do_? And how do we balance it?”

“It can’t be anything _too_ bad,” Lara said, elbowing the nearer of her two friends in the side before Luna could answer. “It’s _Imbolc_ for God’s sake.”

“ _Goddess_ ,” Luna corrected with a small, mischievous smile. “Tonight we’re invoking the Youthful Power in the aspect of Gelach – potential in waiting. _You_ three and Hermione Jean will be the Second Circle – experience. Aerin Mae, Ginevra Phyllis, Lilian Grace, and Mary Elizabeth will be the First Circle – standing between innocence and experience.”

“Does that make you innocence, then?” Ginny asked curiously.

By the light of the waning moon coming in through the windows, Luna’s eyes looked about a thousand years old. A heavy silence settled in before she said, simply, “No.” Then she blinked, and the moment passed. She smiled that strange little half-smile and walked directly up to Thomas, extending a hand. “Your role is only to observe, Thomas Eliot. Will you accept it?”

The older boy still looked rather doubtful, but he took her hand and let her lead him toward the windows at the northernmost point of the room, with the lake behind him. Hermione was moved to the west and the forest, Kirke (whose full name was apparently Dermott Alexander) to the south, where Mary could just make out the lights of Hogsmeade glimmering in the distance, and Lara (Rose) to the east, with the profile of the nearest mountains looming over her shoulders, framed by her window.

After the four ‘observers’ were in place, the young Ravenclaw approached her year mate. “Ginevra Phyllis… You will stand for chance,” she said firmly. Mary noted that the redhead was apparently not to be given a choice when it came to whether she would participate, as the older quartet had been, but she nodded anyway, and was led to stand between Lara and Kirke, somewhat closer to the center of the room. Lilian was apparently _choice_ , standing between Kirke and Hermione. Mary herself was declared to be _fate_ , and took her place between Hermione and Thomas. The last to be assigned a role was Aerin: _innocence_. She moved to her place without prompting.

All eight of them were facing the center of the circle, the center of the room, so it was a bit unexpected when Luna failed to move to that spot, instead standing back to back with Aerin, and raising her arms to the window before her. From her place in the circle, Mary could just make out the younger girl’s profile, ghostly in the same white robes she had worn to the previous year’s midsummer celebration, hair silvered by the moonlight and her eerie-light eyes bright with excitement. She stood in sharp contrast to the rest of them, who had all worn darker colors for sneaking about, and who mostly looked confused.

There was always a slightly sing-song quality to the little Ravenclaw’s voice, so it was hard for Mary to say whether the invocation she spoke was meant to be a chant or a song, or just straightforward declaration: “My lady, I call out to you, to the power of youth, to what-may-be, to the moon and the distant winter sun. I call to you by the promise of the return of the light, as the Dark half of the year comes to an end, and by my dedication to your grace. I call you by your name, Gelach: maiden moon, peace-bound equal of wild Diana; bearer of the burden of the turn of the seasons, sky-borne balance to the Lady of Dis; youthful daughter of Macha, pale twin of Áine the Sun, spirit-sister of apple-bearing Iðunn. Join us this night in celebration!”

A presence seemed to be building within the room – a sense of magic and potential filling the air with tingling power, not entirely unlike the sense Mary had had of the manifestation of Magic at her birthday, though that seemed an awfully long time ago, now. Luna seemed to sense it, too, as she abandoned her position and began to make her way around the circle, weaving between the others as she continued to speak.

“Four stand as witnesses for Experience this night: Two by choice and two by nature, their minds, their bodies and souls no longer yours, but given over to the Dark mirror of Youth by their own will and the passage of Time. Four stand poised at the boundary, children still, and yet touched by darkness, yours, but not yours alone. Untamable, fire burning away fear, the heart of a child chosen for sacrifice and saved by chance, bound not to be so again.”

The white-robed girl paused before her very confused Gryffindor friend and traced a symbol over Ginny’s heart, light following her wand, before crossing the circle to stand before Mary.

“Undeniable, power of fate, shaping the child chosen as its instrument, the catalyst who will, in her turn, shape the world.” The younger girl traced mysterious symbols over her palms, which tickled slightly, but laughter was the furthest thing from her mind, given the words that had just been spoken. A catalyst to shape the world? What on Earth was that supposed to mean? Did she dare hope it wasn’t as ominous as it sounded?

Lilian was next, “Choice deferred, made and unmade by secrets kept, the child haunted by the past, her future in her own hands.” She shivered visibly as Luna’s wand flicked over her mouth.

Aerin looked troubled even before her friend approached her, and no less so after the younger girl declared her to be “the child living in that blissful state of innocence, easy heart unaware of the past, future held in the hands of others, at the mercy of their will, and yet not without hope.” Her symbol was traced over her forehead, and Luna retired to the center of the circle. Mary wondered uneasily if she was about to tell them all about Connor. She hoped not. That would be a hell of a way for Aerin to find out. Lilian, judging by the quick look she sneaked at the other Slytherin, was equally concerned.

Luna, however, obviously wasn’t. She spun in place for a moment, the magic in the circle – the room, for the whole room was the circle – twisting around her, then knelt suddenly, facing Aerin, her hands once again in the air, extended as though begging for favor or mercy.

“By these four aspects of potential untried – bold, powerful, uncertain, and innocent – I call upon the Youthful Power! Lady Gelach, winter sun, maiden moon, join your oath-bound daughter, tainted by grief and knowledge too young, but yet sworn to serve; by my mother’s sacrifice and by my own choice I give myself over to you!”

White flames burst into being all around the kneeling girl, twining around her limbs and sinking into the exposed skin of her hands and face; lifting her hair in a silvery halo; raising her to her (bare) feet in a visible corona of power. Mary could feel it drawing its strength from her along with the others, her magic flowing out of her through the runes Luna had drawn on her palms. Just when she began to worry that she would collapse before the ritual ended, as the grey cobwebs of magical exhaustion began to close in, it stopped.

The white fire condensed itself into Luna’s body, setting her back on her feet. She turned around slowly, taking them in, her eyes glowing with unnatural light.

She smiled and stepped out of the circle, tracing light fingers across Aerin’s shoulders as she moved to stand before Lara. She cocked her head to the side slightly and laughed. When she spoke, her voice was the same as ever, but the tone held a foreign resonance of power. “My Luna is a clever girl, but she was wrong about you. Despite your age, there is still innocence in you.”

She reached up and pulled the older girl’s face down with both hands, kissing her forehead as Hermione had done to Mary in the hospital wing, like an older sister, for all she was half a foot shorter, before doing much the same thing to Kirke.

She flitted away across the circle, even lighter on her feet than Luna (for Mary was quite certain that this was _not_ Luna, or not _just_ Luna) normally was, and came to rest before Thomas. “Precocious boy,” she smirked. “I cannot offer you my blessing, for you truly have taken yourself outside my sphere. You have not left the realm of Youth entirely, but you _are_ out of _my_ reach.” He nodded, an expression of mingled confusion and relief on his face.

Hermione looked almost afraid when the goddess came to her, an expression of concern marring Luna’s features. “She was right about you, too. Your choices have given your soul over to the realm of Experience. More than any of the others, you have deliberately stepped away from the sphere of Youth as a whole, and so you, too, are beyond my reach.” The older girl let her head fall forward, her hair obscuring her face from Mary’s sight as she peered behind herself to watch their interaction.

The goddess seemed to take this for a nod, for she skipped back to the center of the circle and smiled brightly at the six to whom she could, apparently, offer her blessing, whatever that might be. Mary had a sense, as though a voice was whispering from somewhere inside her head: “ _Let us be one_.”

And then the world dissolved, or maybe Mary did. Looking back later, she decided that it felt a bit as though whatever it was that made Mary _herself_ was pulled out of body, by the same channel her magic had taken, flowing into the white flames, but in the moment it felt as though everything, herself included, was simply _unraveling_.

She found herself in a non-space, facing Luna, the _real_ Luna, wrapped in the arms of a construct of light, like a human-shaped Patronus. The construct whispered something in Luna’s ear and she giggled, skipping over to Aerin and spinning her in a circle in the void. Except it _wasn’t_ a void. Lilian and Ginny were there, too, looking as confused as she felt, and Lara and Kirke, who gravitated toward Luna and Aerin as though they knew what was going on.

Ginny and Lilian floated toward her, or maybe she toward them. They seemed to understand their shared sense of bafflement without needing to speak. In all honesty, Mary wasn’t sure she could speak if she wanted to, and she had no desire to find out. She was much more interested in the feeling that the longer she stood – floated – there, the more she realized she could sense… _something_. Little sparks and flames, burning in some way she couldn’t quite see (though sight was the closest thing she could think to compare it to) out in the darkness. It was as though this sense she had never before been aware of was slowly adjusting to the space, as she became aware of more and more flickering flames and pinprick sparks in the distance.

Well… “Distance.” The term didn’t seem to have much meaning here.

Luna burned steadily, like a lamp turned low. Aerin, Lara, and Kirke were brighter, while Ginny’s flame was more like smoldering coals, and Lilian’s guttered, as though it was struggling in a strong wind.

The goddess-construct materialized out of the darkness close enough for Mary to make out general features in the blinding glow of her face. She had been so focused on the flames rather than what she was actually seeing that she hadn’t even realized it was gone. It – she – laughed, and in the same way she had known that she – they – had become _one_ with the goddess, Mary _knew_ that the construct had not truly been _gone_ , but rather everywhere, and thus imperceptible. The sparks, she realized in the next instant, were children. Animals. Insects. Seeds. All the sleeping potential of _life_ not yet acted upon. The world through the goddess’s eyes. The construct winked at her, or perhaps all of them, as it vanished again, and she saw Lilian and Ginny staring at the spot where it had been as well, their wide-eyed expressions no doubt mirroring her own, before all three of them turned to take in the invisible starscape of potential laid out before them.

It was, in a word, _beautiful._

Then it seemed she blinked, though she didn’t think she had, and when she opened her eyes, she was back in her own body, peering, confused, around the moonlit Scrying Tower. The exhaustion she had felt when her magic had been used to help power Gelach’s manifestation or possession, or whatever that had been, had vanished, leaving a sense of rejuvenation in its wake. All of the others who had been in the Void seemed similarly energized, with the exception of Luna, who was swaying on her feet. Hermione and Thomas, the only two not disoriented by the ritual, hurried forward to catch her as she sank to her knees, whispering the devocation and thanks to the Youthful power for blessing her with the presence of her patron goddess.

When she was done, the others, who had gathered around in various states of ritual-borne euphoria and concern, murmured a ragged chorus of, “Blessings of the light.”

The little Ravenclaw, looking more waif-like than usual as she was bodily supported by her House mates, blinked up at them sleepily and said, “I think that went rather well, don’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IRL Gelach is an Old Irish word that means moon, not, so far as I know, an actual goddess. Her traits in this story are a syncretic amalgamation of the Irish goddess of the winter sun (Grian) and Roman and Viking influences including Proserpina, Iðunn, and Diana.
> 
> Hermione's quote is from Peter Pan.


	29. Who Can Fathom the Workings of a Madman's Mind?

###  Sunday, 6 February 1994

#### Great Hall

“So, Longbottom,” Draco drawled conversationally, leaning with practiced nonchalance against the edge of the dueling platform where Mary and her group were taking turns creating little moving targets for each other to shoot down with fire, water, or ice. Professor Flitwick was teaching staff basics for those who were interested on the other side of the room, which meant that everyone else had been given a relatively easy exercise for the day, rather than the go-ahead to fight properly. “I hear you’re too thick to remember the passwords to that stupid tower of yours. I heard ickle Nevvie-poo was crying in the corridor because he couldn’t convince a mad old painting to let him back in – ‘P-please, I need to – to get m-my books and things! I’m going to be _late_!’”

Neville, who was taking his turn at the targets, went very red but pointedly ignored the Slytherin’s taunts.

The Little Weasel immediately leapt to his friend’s defense. Mary was glad he did, because she rather liked Neville and hated watching anyone be bullied. If he hadn’t, she would have been sorely tempted to break the First Rule and “accidentally” hex her House mate. “Bug off, you pointy-faced git!”

“’Pointy-faced git’? Is that _really_ the best you can do? I suppose it’s no surprise the two of you are friends – well suited in your general lack of intelligence and creativity, aren’t you?”

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Mary interrupted before the furious Weasley could completely lose his cool.

The boy sighed dramatically. “Target practice is so _dull_ , Potter.”

The whole week had been rather dull, actually, after Imbolc. It had passed quickly in a blur of classes, Quidditch practice, Patronus lessons, and homework. There had been no arguments with her friends; no tea parties; no illicit duels and subsequent visits to the hospital wing: no intra-Slytherin drama at all, actually. It was eerie. Mary kept thinking that there should be more fall-out from the duel, either from Snape or the rest of the house. Lilian agreed. She had admitted that she suspected Sean and the rest of the prefects were in trouble for letting it all get so out of hand, but as with the Conspiracy, no one seemed to know about any punishments which might be taking place behind closed doors.

The prefects had held a House Meeting on Wednesday, where they announced that they had fully examined the anti-werewolf precautions in place and found them adequate, which meant no one was about to try to get rid of Remus, so even that issue seemed to be mostly resolved. Mary spent most of the meeting trying to determine if any or all of them looked a bit more haggard or exhausted than the rest of the upperclassmen. She couldn’t tell, and so, in the end, dismissed the issue, determined to enjoy the relative calm that followed the official House assurance that Remus wasn’t going to turn into a wolf and kill everyone come full moon.

It was only a matter of time, Mary was sure, until _something_ happened to send the Snakes into another uproar, but she, unlike Draco, certainly didn’t see a bit of breathing room as a good excuse to go picking a fight (or trying to) with someone as nice as Neville.

She missed Weasley’s response, distracted by her own musings, but was drawn back into the developing argument by Malfoy’s sharp, mocking laugh. “Ooh, well done, Weasel! From git to prat! What’s next? Wanker? Pathetic. Here I was hoping for some bloody _entertainment_ , but –”

Just then, Lilian returned from her trip to the refreshment table. “Hey, Draco,” she interrupted him. “What’s up?”

“Oh, you know, just informing the kittens of the latest gossip. Have you heard about Longbottom and that idiot portrait, Sir Cadogan? The nuns on the fourth floor were having a good laugh over it.”

“I said _shut up_ , Malfoy!” Weasley nearly shouted, wand drawn. “Piss off and go bother someone else!”

Malfoy chuckled. “Oi! Longbottom! Going to let your boyfriend fight all your battles for you?”

Neville still didn’t respond, except to conjure a particularly vicious fireball. Weasley, perhaps unsurprisingly, hesitated, obviously uncertain how to continue to defend his friend without insinuating that there was more going on between them than mere friendship.

“Are you _trying_ to get hexed?” Mary asked, exasperated.

“Well given the… competition, you have to admit, it’s more like looking for an excuse to hex one of them. This _is_ a dueling club, is it not?” her House mate rolled his eyes. “But no, my group was just discussing Hogsmeade. I came over to ask whether Lilian has plans.”

The girl in question hummed slightly, looking between the still-red Neville, determinedly sending spell after spell down the length of the platform, and the bored blond before her. “All of us girls are going together,” she informed him coolly after a long moment.

“ _All_ of –”

“It was Pansy’s idea,” Lilian said firmly.

“I thought you guys weren’t dating,” Mary teased her friend.

“We’re not!” they chorused irritably.

“Is this because I was baiting Longbottom and the Weasel?” Malfoy asked. His face was a study in offended entitlement.

“Would it matter if it was?” Lilian snapped (which Mary interpreted as a _yes_ ) and made a dismissive, shooing motion at him.

The boy turned on his heel and stalked off without even a parting shot. Ernie Macmillan demanded that Weasley take a turn conjuring targets so he could go get a drink, and a few minutes later, Lilian took Neville’s place, practicing a nifty little icicle dart spell. The boy joined Mary on the sidelines with a gusty sigh.

“Alright, Neville?” she asked tentatively.

He snorted. “Nothing I’ve never heard before,” he noted in a rather distant tone Mary associated with trying not to let a particularly vicious taunt get to her. There was a touch more bitterness when he added, “Ron’s been giving me shit about it since yesterday, anyway – I got the bloody portrait to tell me all the passwords, because he changes them at _least_ twice a day, and then I _lost_ them.”

The Slytherin bit her tongue hard, trying not to laugh. She could only imagine her own House mates’ reactions if she wrote down the password and lost it. Or worse, Snape’s.

“What did Professor McGonagall say when you told her?” she asked, morbidly curious.

The Gryffindor gave her a look that she couldn’t quite interpret. “I haven’t – I’m not going to. I’d just get in trouble.”

“But aren’t you worried about someone sneaking in?”

“Well, it’s not like I labeled the list _Passwords to Gryffindor Tower_ , is it? Besides, I think it fell out of my pocket in the owlery, so I doubt anyone would want to pick it up. And even if they did, there had to be fifteen or so on the list – they still wouldn’t know which one we were on – they only last about eight to twelve hours.”

It sounded an awful lot like Neville was trying to justify not telling to himself, but Mary wasn’t about to object. It wasn’t as if someone couldn’t just hide around the corner from the entrance to Gryffindor with a supersensory charm and wait to overhear the password, anyway. Morgana and her boys had done that to mess with the twins’ dorm at the beginning of the year. But she couldn’t exactly say that, either. She cast about for something relatively neutral. “You mean the portrait itself chooses your passwords?” she finally asked.

The boy nodded miserably. “It’s been a nightmare. I’m not the only one that can’t keep up – even the prefects don’t always know what it is.”

“That’s… that’s just _weird_. Our prefects choose ours,” she informed him.

“I think it was a condition of his agreeing to take on the job – and he was the only one mad enough to volunteer after, you know, _Black_.”

“How did you get him to tell you all of the ones you wrote down?” she asked, genuinely curious.

The Gryffindor rolled his eyes. “I managed to get one, and that proved I was meant to be there, yeah? And then I told him if he gave me three or four in advance, I wouldn’t get caught out, and he’d definitely know it was me. I think he was feeling a bit sorry for me, because I’d missed the last three changes – no one tells me anything – and had to keep getting others to let me in. So that was right after the hols. I’ve been getting about a week’s ahead, just to be on the safe side.”

That was actually pretty clever, except for the part where he lost the whole week’s worth of them at once. She said so, to Neville’s slight amusement. She considered it a win that he was at least smiling about the whole thing, now, if not quite laughing at the situation yet.

He sighed. “The worst part is, there’s no way he’ll give me the passwords again.”

“I can’t believe the Professor is letting him change the password so often anyway. It sounds obnoxious.”

“I’m… not sure she knows,” the boy said hesitantly. “I mean, I know she’s the Head of Gryffindor, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her up in the tower except maybe… twice? Mostly it’s just the prefects in charge, and if we need to talk to her, we go to her office hours.”

Mary gaped at him. “Seriously?”

“Um… yeah?”

“Merlin! I knew she was busy with being the deputy head and all, but – you don’t even have like, monthly House Meetings?” It was a little uncomfortable to realize that she probably saw more of her guardian than the Gryffindors did.

Neville shrugged. “Just as well, really. She reminds me a bit of my gran.”

The Slytherin rolled her eyes. “She’s way nicer than your gran, especially when you get to know her. You should tell her about the passwords being changed so often. That’s just… stupid.”

He shrugged again, in a way that suggested he had no intention to do so, even though he said, “Maybe.”

Mary didn’t really have the opportunity to press the issue, as Lisa Turpin tapped her to take over making targets. Quite frankly, she was surprised the Ravenclaw had lasted as long as she did – the targets were little shield-bubbles, which required not only a constant input of power to resist the spells thrown at them, but also constant focus to move them around. If your attention wavered, your target would most likely be destroyed: they had been making three in a row before switching off. Turpin was very good at evasive maneuvers, though, and had managed to draw out her turn for at least twice as long as any of the others. Mary checked the time before she stepped up to the far end of the platform (seven minutes was the time to beat) and put the Gryffindors’ password issue out of her mind, focusing on avoiding Lilian’s darts and the high-powered jets of water Weasley was producing. It wasn’t really any of her business, anyway.

###  Saturday, 12 February 1994

#### Ravenclaw Tower

##### Luna

Out of all the founders of Hogwarts, Rowena, daughter of Raven and Claw, was Luna Xenadora’s favorite.

Gryffindor was a hard man who had lived an easy life – not physically – he had been a warrior, after all, but he was the sort of man who had very particular ideas of how things should be, and expected the world to shape itself to his idea of what was right. She could tell by the way his Chamber of Tempering tried to sculpt you relentlessly into his own image of honor and nobility and bravery, and by the shining idealism that lay at the hearts of her Gryffindor peers.

Slytherin was a soft man who had lived a very hard life. No one valued survival and cunning and taking what was needed by any means necessary unless they had lived the kind of life where survival was ever in doubt. She could see his way of never settling, of always turning away whenever anyone tried to pin him down, in the very stones of the school, always shifting, and the hearts and minds of his heirs and his students, who would become whatever they needed to be to do whatever they wanted to do, and thought it no hardship.

Hufflepuff was a teacher – the best sort of teacher. Understanding. Flexible. Like Gryffindor, the evidence was in her Chamber, the Come and Go Room, that gave her students what they needed, whenever they needed it, and in the very existence of Hogwarts itself. Human stories said it was Gryffindor who built it, the one with the idea to found a school at all, but the stones sang of Helga Hufflepuff, the foundation of the Four, and everyone knew that Hufflepuffs were solid, dependable people: the foundation of Magical Britain.

Rowena Raven-Claw had been a lifelong student. A free spirit. An open mind. She had taught because the best way to test one’s understanding was to teach, but she never stopped trying to learn new things. The evidence of her character was written in her own hand, translated and copied through the ages, kept safe in the Library at the heart of her tower, chronicling her life from her earliest days with the Druids of Eire to her great Quest for knowledge to the Founding of Hogwarts and the things she had learned from her students. Luna, a true Ravenclaw at heart, had determined early on that she would, some day, live up to the legacy and example her heroine had set.

And Rowena reminded Luna of her mother, a fellow seeker-of-truth, taken by Fate not too soon, for the one who determined the timing of everything couldn’t truly be said to be early, but sooner than Luna had wanted to give her up.

Was it any surprise, then, that out of the four, it was Rowena’s face the Moon chose to wear, when she visited Luna’s dreams?

_Come_ , she whispered.

_Come see_.

_It’s important_.

Sleeping-Luna wandered through a shadow world, surrounded by whispers made solid, following the light of the moon goddess like a will o’ the wisp, trusting it not to lead her astray.

In the distance, there was another glimmer of light, not of the Moon – brighter and more tarnished all at once, like a fallen star, perhaps. The Moon-Rowena led her toward it, bringing her to it, walking into the pile of darkness that had nearly covered it unimpeded. Sleeping-Luna fought to follow, struggling against the mass of creeping, binding black. She was only halfway there when they overtook the last sliver of silver, and the light went out.

The tendrils sublimated away into whispers again, louder than before, but too many all at once to make out their words, their substance. Gelach gave her an expectant look and walked on, saying nothing. It was a rare visitation when the minor goddess had the strength to speak to her directly, even so soon after Imbolc.

Sleeping-Luna followed, as she was bound to do, the child dedicated to the goddess to take her mother’s long-abandoned place.

She found a puppy, hurt and broken, and wandering lost in the whispers, but not under attack.

Sleeping-Luna picked him up. He was warm in her arms, and real, as nothing else was, whimpering and shaking in fear, or maybe pain. He hid his face in the crook of her arm and she stroked the soft fur of his neck, humming a comforting song, but it was not enough.

He looked up at her face with almost human understanding. As soon as he did, the whispers closed in, like vines, like tentacles, stealing the puppy away from her, dissolving him into nothingness. The Moon walked away, into the susurrating darkness.

They came upon a young man, blinded by the whispers wrapped tightly around his head, threatening to consume him. _It’s your fault_ , they told him, clear enough here to make out the words. _You failed them. You failed_ her. _You are weak. There is nothing you can do. The world would be better off without you._

She stepped forward and tried to pull the whispers away from him, but they were rooted deep within him, and she could not remove them. She only cleared them enough to see a single lost and maddened eye before he, like the puppy and the light before him, dissolved into nothingness.

The whispers went with him, leaving only blank darkness in their wake. The light of the Moon and Rowena’s face vanished, leaving Luna alone in the void, nowhere, her thinking-space.

As she began to reflect on the things she had seen, a foreign thought fell into her mind, sending ripples throughout her entire being.

_ Help him! _

Luna woke with a start at the unexpected communication, gasping slightly with the urgency she felt to get up, to go somewhere, to do _something_.

“Luna?” her roommate spoke. “Where are you going?”

“Go back to sleep, Jennifer Marie.” She slipped out of their shared space without answering the question. She couldn’t. She didn’t know. She just knew that she couldn’t stay still. She would have to trust that wherever she went, she would find the person and the moment Innocence wished her to find.

And then she had to figure out how to help him.

Being a white witch, she thought tiredly, was often more trouble than it was worth.

She let her feet carry her out of the tower, letting her mind slip into the half-sleeping place of a trance, that the goddess might guide her path, as she had in the dream. She walked toward Gryffindor: down two staircases and across the third floor, then into a secret passage, heading up. The dog literally ran into her as it raced through the same passage, heading down.

It knocked her down the stairs, head over heels, and she lost consciousness for a moment. When she came to, it was a man who stood over her, or rather crouched, still on all fours on the stairs, too-thin, bearded, dirty, and disheveled, with the same maddened, lost eyes as the man in her dream. Sirius Black. He was muttering, “ _Fuck, fuck, don’t be dead, little girl_ ,” under his breath.

She laughed, a little, at the thought of the notorious mass murderer begging her not to be dead. A man, a dog, a fallen star – how was she supposed to help him?

Her reaction seemed to reassure him slightly, at least that she wasn’t dead. He propped her up against the wall, and made as though to run again, shifting into his animagus form, but he paused when she called, “ _Wait!”_

“I have to run! I’m sorry!” he said, human again, still crouched beside her, tension singing through him, his very body wanting to run, to get _away_ , to be _safe_ , but he waited, because he didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want to scare her – and because he wanted just the slightest moment of human contact, the slightest reminder that he was human, and not a monster. She could _feel_ it, his need, pressing against her mind.

To be an empath was not a _comfortable_ gift, no more than any other part of being a servant of her goddess. It _was_ a gift, as it was a gift to serve, to know the Power as she did, but one was as unasked-for as the other.

She reached out a hand to take his wrist and he froze beneath her touch, something like awe on his face (if awe had lost its mind, ripped apart by whispered lies and all the most painful truths).

“The Moon would not have sent me to you if you weren’t innocent,” she told him, though she could not see where his innocence lay. Perhaps in that, after twelve years of Azkaban, he was still the sort of man to stop and make sure that the child he had flattened on the stairs was not dead. Hope bloomed within him, a tiny golden seed, fighting back against the darkness. In that moment, she understood: truth and hope to burn away lies and despair. “The whispers lied. The world would not be better off without you,” she added, feeding it, like a flame.

“Who are you?” he asked, trying to crush it out.

She understood – no one knew better than Pandora’s child how terrifying hope could be, how dangerous, a poison to the soul.

But weren’t most medicines poison?

She smiled. “Tonight? Truth, and a reminder that your part is not yet done. Even the gods cannot fight Fate. Our lives are the casualties of the grand battle between Order and Chaos, but it is ever-unfolding, in this time and every other.” The flame of his hope grew brighter.

“Then there’s still time? I can still save her?”

“Who?”

“The Fawn – Mary! I have to keep her safe!”

_Oh… well_ that _makes_ much _more sense…_ Luna thought, at least insofar as the Youthful Power had intervened on his behalf. At least, it made more sense than the Power of Innocence and Honesty ordering her to help an oathbreaker.

“Mary Elizabeth _is_ safe. Her future is no more uncertain than anyone’s.” Which wasn’t saying much, really, since they were all at the mercy of Chaos, who might disturb what little she had seen of the tapestry at any time, but still…

“You don’t understand – The Rat! The Bond! Someone’s casting dark magic on her – I can’t find her!”

Luna didn’t know anything about rats or bonds, but she _did_ know about the spell to make Mary Elizabeth un-trackable. “Professor Phobetor hid her from everyone, to keep her away from the other Death Eaters, and those who would cause her harm,” she said soothingly.

“But the Rat! Pettigrew! He’s a rat! He’s alive! He betrayed us! He’ll hurt her! He’s here, in the castle!”

Luna made a mental note to look into this, though she didn’t know how she would go about it. The whole castle was under anti-scrying wards. Instead she made her best attempt at channeling Hermione Jean: Straightforward. Practical. “I’ll warn her. We’ll keep her safe.”

Relief and gratitude welled up, strengthening the flame of hope, beating back the darkness a little further. “Thank you!” he rasped, his mouth still open to say something more, but before he could, they heard the sound of someone opening the door at the top of the passage. He fell into his dog form and bounded away, slipping to the other side of the tapestry covering the bottom of the stair, just before Luna’s least-favorite professor bustled into sight.

“Miss Lovegood?” McGonagall asked. “What are you doing here? You should be in your dorm! There’s been another attack!”

“I think I should be in the hospital wing, actually,” she noted, trying to stand, and feeling dizziness emanating from the lump on the back of her head. “It seems I was sleepwalking, and I must have fallen,” she explained, scrupulously honest.

The professor made a sort of irritated chuffing noise, a sharp eye checking her over for more serious injuries. “Well, come on, then,” she said shortly. “Can’t have you wandering about with _him_ on the loose. I’ll take you to Poppy before I continue the search.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Luna said politely, letting the older witch lead the way toward the hospital wing.

She hoped Sirius Black got away.

###  Monday, 14 February 1994

#### Hogwarts Library

“Hey, um… is, uh, I mean… is the offer to hang out with you lot still open?”

Mary, surrounded by Potions notes, textbooks, and a half-written essay which she wasn’t really making any progress on, looked up, confused, at the pitiable sight of a very hangdog Neville Longbottom. He had quite obviously been forcibly dragged to their library table by Ginny Weasley. “Um… sure?”

Hermione shrugged. Lilian kicked out the chair across from herself and nodded for him to sit down.

“Thanks, loves,” Ginny said, pulling out her own usual chair. “Everyone’s been absolutely horrible to him since Saturday. I’m not sure, but I think it might be worse than last year for me. At least I had the twins on my side, you know?”

The trio nodded, as Neville hunched in his chair, obviously trying to avoid as much notice as possible, even here. The whole school knew now that he had misplaced a list of passwords, allowing Black to waltz right into the Tower. Mary bit her lip to avoid saying some variation of ‘I told you so.’ It had taken all of three hours for the whole school to learn that the portrait guarding the Gryffindors’ Tower had been replaced by the Fat Lady again, with a pair of security trolls ‘for her protection.’ (Security trolls were supposedly a completely different beast from the mountain troll she had seen in her first year, trained basically from birth to obey simple orders from whoever was in charge of them: far less dangerous and more hygienic than their wild cousins, but Mary had no intention of venturing into Lion territory to have a look-see.)

“Is it true Black tried to knife your brother?” Lilian asked the youngest Weasley in a cheerful tone.

Mary groaned. She didn’t want to think about Sirius Black anymore. She had spent most of her free time since breakfast (aside from fending off Valentine’s Day admirers inviting her to Hogsmeade the following weekend) avoiding as much of the ‘Black Broke in Again’ gossip as she could, which unfortunately hadn’t been nearly all of it.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “It is if you listen to him. ‘Nearly ran me through – _slashed_ the bloody curtains to ribbons – wild, mad eyes’ bloody over-dramatic idiot. I think he’s enjoying the attention. Prat.”

Neville shivered. “Everyone’s saying I nearly killed him.”

Ginny flung an arm around his shoulder. “You didn’t almost kill him. _Sirius Black_ almost killed him. Supposedly. I’m sure he would have found some other way in if he hadn’t had the passwords. And besides, who’s to say it was even your list? You were just the only one brave enough to admit they’d written them down.”

“Or _stupid_ enough.” Neville let his head fall to the table with a hollow _thunk_. “Can we talk about something else?” he mumbled.

“Of course,” Hermione said, giving him a vaguely concerned smile which he didn’t look up to see. “We were just talking about well, something Luna said, actually.”

“Oh?” Ginny raised an eyebrow at them.

“’The Fallen Star says that Mary Elizabeth must beware of rats.’ The Moon has vouched for this fallen star, apparently, so she thinks we should take this warning seriously,” Lilian explained, obviously trying not to laugh.

It _was_ one of the more absurd things she had told them since they had met, but Mary, as the one for whom the warning was meant, couldn’t help but think that perhaps she should keep it in mind. After all, Luna had never actually _lied_ to her, and mostly, when she could wrap her head around the younger girl’s strange thought patterns, she gave good advice.

“Sounds like a prophecy,” Neville said, looking up, obviously interested in spite of himself.

The girls laughed. “ _Everything_ Luna says sounds like a prophecy,” Hermione complained. “It’s rather irritating, actually. But I don’t think she’s a Seer any more than Trelawney is. She obviously knows what she’s saying and remembers it all.”

“What is a rat supposed to do to you?” the redhead asked, heading off a rant about the Divination Drunk.

Mary shrugged. “So far we’ve come up with biting me, being gross in my general vicinity, and/or giving me the Black Plague. We’re open to suggestions.”

Hermione sighed. “If it helps, apparently the specific star is the Trickster’s Light – though of course I have no idea what that means. I’ve never heard of a star or constellation called that. I think she’s being deliberately cryptic.”

Ginny grinned. “Luna Xenadora? Deliberately cryptic? _Noooo…_ ” the sarcasm practically dripped from her words.

The Ravenclaw sniggered. “Is that really her middle name? Xenadora? Gift of strangeness?”

The second-year shrugged. “It’s a mash-up. Her mum was Pandora, and her dad’s Xenophilius. But yeah, I suppose it suits, doesn’t it?”

Neville was shaking his head. “What about that second part? Who is the Moon? It’s not you, is it?” The last question seemed to be directed at Lilian.

“Nope. Nor Sean nor Aerin. She doesn’t use last names. Best guess she’s referring to herself in the third person.”

“Huh.” The boy seemed every bit as stumped as the rest of them.

“So what are you going to do?” Ginny asked.

“Um… stay away from rats, I guess. I mean, it shouldn’t be too difficult, right?” Mary wasn’t sure, but she didn’t think there were many rats in the castle.

The others nodded in agreement, and Lilian changed the subject. “So are you allowed to come to Hogsmeade now?” she asked Mary. Ginny rolled her eyes and started rummaging through her bag for something to work on. It wasn’t as though she cared about visiting the village since she couldn’t go, either.

The younger Slytherin sighed. “ _No_.”

“Why not?” Hermione demanded.

Mary gave her a rueful smile. “I think she might have been irritated that I was bothering her with something so unimportant while she was trying to deal with her House getting broken into.” She had visited her guardian the day prior, which might, admittedly, have been too soon, given that Gryffindor apparently hadn’t got much sleep on Saturday night.

“But doesn’t that prove he’s not after you?” Ginny asked.

“Yeah,” Neville concurred. “Even if he thought you were a Gryffindor, well… he knows you’re a girl, right?”

“That’s what we said,” Lilian informed the Gryffindors. “We don’t think he’s after Lizzie at all, but apparently McGonagall was all, ‘This just proves that he is unstable, unpredictable, and still in the area!’”

“Don’t do that, Lili, your accent is horrible,” Hermione winced. “Anyway, if she really believes that, I’m surprised _anyone_ is allowed to go to Hogsmeade.”

“She mentioned that,” Mary volunteered. “Apparently the Headmaster thinks the danger is minimal, because he seems to be focused on the school, and hasn’t been spotted in the village at all. They’re sending more chaperones than usual, but that’s it. She said that since I’m the only student she can outright forbid to go, I’m not going. But she can’t stop anyone else.”

“Well, we’ll stay in groups – I think it should be safe enough,” Lilian argued.

Her House mate sniggered. “You sound like a Gryffindor.”

Neville snorted. “No, a Gryffindor sounds like, ‘I was almost murdered by Sirius Black, come buy me a butterbeer at the Brooms and I’ll tell you all about it.’”

“Ooh, bit disenchanted with your fellow Lions, are we, Neville?” Mary teased him.

He flushed badly, but nodded. “Ron, Seamus, and Dean are pretending I don’t exist.”

“Well, fuck them,” Lilian said. “They’re a bunch of stupid arseholes.”

“Are all your brothers idiots, Ginny?” Hermione asked, probably rhetorically.

The younger girl looked up from the Herbology diagram she was labeling and smirked broadly. “Not _all_. Bill’s brilliant, and Charlie’s like… _wise_ , and Percy’s just a prat.”

“What have the twins done now?” Lilian asked. Mary did a doubletake, not having realized that she knew about Hermione’s continued association with the Weasleys. _Figures I was the last to know_ , she thought bitterly.

But she said nothing as Hermione explained: “Well, you know how they want to open a joke shop when they finish school?” Everyone nodded. It wasn’t exactly a secret, or a surprise. “Well, they’ve come up with the idea that if they only do the bare minimum on their OWLs – say, three each – and one NEWT, then Mrs. Weasley won’t be able to bully them into a proper line of work, because they simply won’t have the qualifications.”

“Are – seriously?” Astonishment and then a sort of rueful ‘should have expected that’ look flitted across Neville’s face. “Actually, no, I can see it.”

Ginny’s jaw literally dropped. “You’re kidding,” she said faintly. Hermione shook her head. “Mum’s going to go _spare_.”

“No worries, Gin,” Lilian laughed. “I know that look. Their plan has a fatal flaw you see…”

Mary nodded, failing miserably to suppress a snort of laughter. “Yeah, _Maia_ knows, so now _she_ can just bully them into it. Your mum won’t even have to know.”

“I might owl her about it anyway,” the Ravenclaw muttered. “They’re all ‘What she doesn’t know can’t hurt us’ and ‘It’s the perfect plan! She’ll have no choice but to let us do what we want!’ and ‘The qualification doesn’t really _matter_ as long as we can do the magic,’ and they won’t hear a thing about having a bloody back-up plan! What if the joke shop idea doesn’t work out? I ask you… Oh, bloody hell! Sorry, Madam Pince…”

The bookworm’s volume had risen with her irritation, and even the very sincere-sounding apology wasn’t enough to stop the group being kicked out of the library for the day, given that the librarian clearly heard the expletive that preceded it. It was just as well: Mary wasn’t getting anything done, and she and Lilian had to go to class, anyway.


	30. Two Steps Forward (One Step Back)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [AN re: update schedule
> 
> As some of you know, I recently moved and got a new job. While this has been good for me because it means I am closer to friends and family and have an income again, it also means that I have far less time for writing now than I used to, and I'm almost out of buffer chapters.
> 
> Unfortunately, it has become increasingly evident over the past months that I will not be able to maintain the current update pace for the remainder of this book. Instead of sacrificing the quality of the story, I have decided that I will be cutting back to monthly posts.
> 
> Updates are now scheduled for the first Monday in the month, which means the next chapter will post on the third of April, and the following one on the first of May. My sincerest apologies for any disappointment this may cause.]

 

###  Saturday, 19 February 1994

#### Severus Snape’s Office

In a scene eerily reminiscent of Mary’s first year, four students sat facing Professor Snape’s apparently disorganized desk as he paced behind them, highly irritated. Mary was even sitting in the same place as she had done after the Dragon Evacuation, but this time it was the middle of the afternoon, and all of the torches were lit.

The sound of Snape’s boot-heels hitting the ground behind them and the little gust of wind as he turned on his heel, sweeping his robes around himself, were nearly as intimidating as his shadow flickering on the wall had been.

Blaise, nearest the door, had kicked his feet out and crossed his legs at the ankles, apparently as relaxed as though he was lounging in the Commons. Mary herself was next, slouched and sulking over having been caught, and wondering what the punishment for their (closely averted) rule-breaking was likely to be. Theo was as poised and attentive as ever, as though they were all in class. On his far side, Ginny Weasley was silent, red-faced and clearly furious, but her posture, ramrod straight at the edge of her seat, betrayed her nervousness.

His thoughts apparently collected, the Head of Slytherin stalked to his own seat and glared at them. “Which of you would like to explain why you are all here, in my office, after having attempted to summon a class-three demonic entity into the school, rather than down in Hogsmeade tormenting Madam Rosmerta and Lottie Flume?”

Well, it sounded _much_ worse when he put it like _that_ …

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It had all started, as such things tend to do, rather innocuously.

Two days before, Mary had had her third Patronus Lesson. After five weeks of practice (despite Remus’ admonitions not to do so unsupervised, which she thought he ought to have known she wouldn’t abide by anyway, once they had actually started learning), she had managed to consistently produce a wispy, silver shield, hanging motionless before her, even when faced with the boggart-dementor. Hermione and Lilian were not too far behind: Hermione managed her ghostly shield inconsistently, failing more toward the end of their practice sessions, and Lilian’s faltered when faced with the boggart-dementor, every time. Remus called this the ‘incorporeal’ form of the spell, and said that it was a product of insufficient focus or power. The ironic thing was, according to Hermione’s books, it took a lot more effort to sustain the unfocused, incorporeal form than it would if they could just push through and cast the spell properly in the first place.

As the girls had learned at some point in one of their early Charms lessons, there was really only one way to (relatively) safely increase one’s capacity to do magic, aside from waiting to grow up and come into one’s full power, which normally happened around age fifteen. That way was to use magic _a lot_. To the point of repeated magical exhaustion, if possible. The theory was that one’s body would either adjust, and begin to channel magic more efficiently, or else run itself completely into the ground. The metaphor used most often was learning to function on less-than-optimal amounts of sleep. It was a miserable process and borderline dangerous, but had the potential to be very, very useful.

Professor Flitwick had only mentioned it as part of the reason they _shouldn’t_ try to do spells too far out of their league, and why they should stick to their year level in the Standard Book of Spells.

Neither the Slytherins nor Ravenclaws took his warning to heart insofar as sticking to their year’s materials went, but they did work out for themselves that the most they could (generally) read ahead and expect to be able to actually do the spells was a couple of years.

The Patronus Charm was NE level – at _least_ three years beyond what Mary and her friends could reasonably be expected to perform.

But, then again, Mary had easily managed to cast the fourth-year Summoning Charm the summer after first year, and Disillusionment, which Snape had showed all the Slytherins as part of the Sneaking Spells regimen, was a seventh-year charm, which most of the third-years could cast at least well enough to obscure their faces (even if they didn’t have the power or control to actually become invisible). So it didn’t really seem _that_ absurd to think that she might be able to cast a Patronus with enough practice.

If that practice just so happened to exhaust her to the point that her body and magical reserves had to adjust or else, well, she was willing to take that risk. Worst case scenario, if she did end up in hospital again… Honestly she suspected that Madam Pomfrey would be rather upset with her, but that would be nothing new. At least it would be her own fault, and not because someone else had attacked her again. As much as it sucked having to wait a day or two to do magic after a bout of magical exhaustion, it wasn’t as though she hadn’t gone through it before, multiple times, even.

So she decided, on Thursday evening, that she really just needed more practice. Preferably against the boggart-dementor, because there was no point if she couldn’t concentrate past the fear/misery the thing exuded: focus was just as necessary as power in casting magic. The only problem was, she thought, that she didn’t have access to a boggart, and she couldn’t very well tell Remus that she wanted to practice with it unsupervised.

Lilian went straight to bed, nearly stumbling over a brazier in her exhaustion, while Mary collapsed onto Blaise’s couch, wondering how to go about acquiring a boggart of her own. (In hindsight, she might have been getting a bit obsessive over the Patronus thing.)

The boys (Theo and Blaise) fixed her with a similar questioning expression. Rather than answer the unspoken ‘ _What happened to you?’_ she opted to ask, “You blokes know a lot about boggarts, right?”

Theo rolled his eyes and pointed at his friend. Blaise smirked. “You could say that. Why do you ask?”

“I think I need one.”

“Why?” Theo asked drily. “Planning on going into competition with Blaise for creepiest pet?”

Mary snickered half-heartedly. She had forgotten that Blaise supposedly had a pet boggart. “That was true?”

“What? Theo, did you tell Mary about Coco?” The Italian sounded faintly accusatory.

“Daphne did, ages ago,” Theo defended himself.

Blaise muttered something under his breath about girls not keeping secrets properly, but it was drowned out by his friend adding, “Yes, it’s true. And yes, he really does call it Coco.”

“Could you help me catch one?” she asked, turning to the darker boy.

“Um… I suppose I _could_ ,” he answered, obviously slightly taken aback, “but Theo’s question still stands. What do you need it for? You’re not learning Occlumency.”

It wasn’t a question. “I could be. How do you know?”

Theo snorted. Blaise shrugged. “I just do. So… boggart?”

“Oh, well…” Mary had actually forgotten that boggarts were good practice for Occlumency, and now that she had been reminded of that fact, she kind of wanted to try it, though she doubted she would get much of anywhere with self-study. After a moment of indecisiveness, she reluctantly decided not to pursue that particular conversational detour, however. It wouldn’t do to get distracted from her primary goal, after all. “Remember how I wanted to learn how to cast the Patronus Charm?”

“Um… yes?” It wasn’t as though it was really that big a secret that she had been asking around after the Patronus back in November. Blaise obviously wasn’t putting two and two together with their first Defense lesson of the year, but Theo’s eyes widened as he got it.

“That’s actually really clever.”

Mary put on a tone of false offense. “No need to sound so surprised!”

“Who did you get to teach you?” Theo demanded, as Blaise obviously made the connection as well, his mouth dropping open in surprise.

The girl smirked. “Professor Lupin. We’ve been using a boggart every other Thursday, but I really think I need more practice. So…”

Blaise sat up straight, leaning in to the triangle formed by their shared sofa and Theo’s armchair, giving them the illusion of privacy. “So, what will you give us if we help you catch a boggart?”

Mary bit her lip, considering what they might want. “I could try to teach you the charm as well, if you like,” she offered.

The boys exchanged a look.

“Dark wizards can’t cast the Patronus,” Theo said after a moment, admitting aloud for the first time, at least to Mary, that they (or at least he) identified as such, though it wasn’t exactly a surprise.

“Professor Snape can,” she shrugged. “I’m not promising anything, but I don’t think that should stop you. He’s got to be a darker wizard than either of you.”

The boys exchanged another look.

“I’ll do it,” Blaise decided, grinning. “What’s the matter, Theo? Not up for a challenge?”

He groaned. “No, I’m just not as much of a masochist as you. But what the hell. Sure. When are we doing this?”

“What are you two doing this Saturday?” Mary asked.

“Hogsmeade?” Blaise reminded her.

She made a face at him.

“We can skip it,” Theo offered.

Blaise looked at him askance. “Weren’t you just the reluctant one?”

“About the Patronus, sure. But I don’t need anything from town that I can’t just owl-order, and Daphne cancelled your Valentine’s date to hang out with the girls, so the only reason to go is to get away from everyone and do something different for a day, and I’m pretty sure skulking around hunting Dark Creatures qualifies, so…”

The Italian sighed in his usual over-dramatic fashion, sharp contrast to his friend’s straightforward logic. “Yeah, all right. Saturday it is. But if we’re not going to Hogsmeade, I’m sleeping in. Meet after lunch?”

Mary beamed. “Great!” Then she yawned broadly enough that her jaw popped, and excused herself to bed. (In hindsight, she had _definitely_ been a bit obsessive over the Patronus thing, signing up for more Patronus practice in such a state…)

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

Ginny had been a last-minute addition to the group. She had showed up to lunch on Saturday fuming, and flipped off the first- and second-year Snakes when they objected to her joining the Slytherin table, much to the amusement of the scattered upperclassmen who had stayed behind in favor of studying for OWLs or NEWTs, or just having a quiet weekend to themselves. They couldn’t normally be bothered with what the underclassmen were up to, but even the seventh-years were aware of Ginny’s status as an outcast within Gryffindor for her role in the Chamber of Secrets’ opening. That, along with her casual disregard for their show of scorn, meant she was as welcome at their table as the average Ravenclaw, at least.

The younger girl ranted about her fellow Gryffindors while Mary scarfed down her food, her complaints ranging from her dorm-mates mocking her association with Neville and their House’s continued shunning of him to her youngest brother’s incessant bitching about his stupid rat disappearing.

“It’s just a stupid rat! It probably up and died in a corner somewhere, or got eaten by one of the _literally dozens_ of cats running around, but he _won’t shut up_ about it.”

She stopped to take a breath, and Dave raised an eyebrow at Mary. “ _I don’t think she sees the irony_ ,” he stage-whispered, causing the older girl to crack up.

The redhead glared at the firstie. “Don’t think I didn’t hear that, Davey-boy!”

He just gave her a cheeky smirk, the one he had picked up from Lilian. “And yet you don’t _deny_ it.”

That, of course, led Alex and Nora to add teasing jibes of their own.

Ginny’s red-faced irritation at the underclassmen’s mockery was almost as amusing as the initial observation. Instead of attempting to deny it (for she _had_ been complaining about it at unreasonable length), she opted to change the subject. “Aren’t you _done_ yet?”

“Um, I guess so? Why?”

“Come _on_ then,” the Gryffindor demanded, dragging her away from the table firmly by the wrist.

“Gin – what? Uh, bye, you lot…” she called back toward the table, then added, somewhat more quietly, “What the hell, Ginny? I have plans this afternoon – I’m supposed to be meeting Blaise and Theo after lunch…”

“This won’t take that long,” the younger girl snapped, dragging her into a classroom. “I just… I just need someone to bloody _talk_ to.”

“What?” Mary asked blankly. “Why me? Don’t you usually talk to Hermione? Or Luna?”

“Not when _Hermione_ is part of the _problem_ , and Luna’s… _Luna_!”

The Slytherin shook her wrist free and cast an anti-eavesdropping charm at the door before taking a seat. “What _is_ the problem?” she asked, curious despite herself.

“Oh, well, let’s see, shall we? There’s the fact that Neville’s been trailing after me like a lost puppy since last weekend, there’s the way Hermione keeps treating me like some fragile little kid who’s about to break if you look at me wrong, and then today I tried to sneak out to Hogsmeade, only to find out that she’s got the twins on her side now! They caught me and made me come back, instead of being all like, ‘Sounds like fun times, we’ll distract Filch for you!’”

Mary knew that she should probably be more concerned about the resentment Ginny was obviously harboring toward Neville and Hermione, but she was more focused on the fact that she had heard nothing about her friend going to Hogsmeade with one of the twins. “Is she dating one of them?” she asked.

“ _What?”_

“Hermione – you said she was going to Hogsmeade with the twins. Is she dating one of them?”

“No!” the redhead glared, pacing angrily around the room. “First off, I don’t think she _could_ date just one of them, and I’m pretty sure they’re just friends. But you’re _completely_ missing the point! I’m not some little kid who needs to be protected all the time!”

The Slytherin raised an eyebrow at her. “Well, you can’t really be surprised they’re still a little protective after… you know. Can you really blame them for not wanting you to be out where Sirius Black could get you?”

“Yes! Yes, I can! I can’t believe this, I thought you’d be just as angry about being cooped up in the castle.”

“I was, at first, but I’m mostly used to it by now.” She actually still was fairly irritated, but she had long since resigned herself to the fact that there would be no changing the Professor’s mind. “Besides, none of the other second-years are allowed to go, either,” she pointed out. “It’s not really the same thing.”

“None of the other second-years have had to deal with Tom Fucking Riddle in their heads for a whole year! If I can handle that, I think I should be allowed to go visit the Shrieking Shack if I want to! I don’t – I’m not –” To Mary’s intense consternation, tears of frustration began to leak out of the younger girl’s eyes. She collapsed into a nearby chair with a sniffle and dropped her head to the desk.

“Erm… Ginny?” she reached out gingerly to pat the younger girl’s arm. “Are you okay?” she asked helplessly.

“Do I look like I’m okay?” the younger girl snapped, though her sniffles rather ruined the effect.

“I – ah…” she had no idea what to say.

Fortunately, it seemed that Ginny didn’t need her to say anything, as she continued to mumble into her crossed arms, head down. “I just want to _move on_ , and they won’t _let_ me, always treating me like some glass doll – like some fainting bloody flower – it just drags me back! Even on the pitch, they try to protect me all the time, and – and – it’s like because I fucked up just once, it’s like they’ll never trust me to look out for myself again! They haven’t played any pranks on me at all since the Chamber, like they think I can’t handle it or something. And that’s just Fred and George!

“Hermione’s worse! She’s so afraid of ‘triggering’ me – that’s her word, ‘triggering’ – that she cuts herself off all the time, talking like a mind healer or something, like she’s the responsible adult, and I’m this damaged sodding _child_! Like she’s so much better than me, and not every bit as messed up. I never should have let her have those memories. She thinks she knows me so good now, but she only knows _victim_ Ginny – she doesn’t know how I was before, or how I _want_ to be, and she keeps acting like that’s all I am! Fucking Riddle’s victim. I hate her!

“Every time I get too close to the dementors, I remember – I remember being so fucking _weak_. I – he wouldn’t have been able to get to me if I hadn’t been.”

Mary tried to interrupt and say it wasn’t her fault, but Ginny’s head snapped up, glaring, and she talked over her.

“No!” she stood, forcing her way into Mary’s personal space. “You don’t get to tell me whose fault it was or wasn’t! You weren’t there! If I hadn’t been so overwhelmed by… everything… then I never would have depended on him! I never would have told him everything I did! But I was, and I did, and that’s on me. Lilian was right – I should have told someone, at least when I got away, and Luna had the book. That’s on me, too. You don’t… you don’t get to say it wasn’t my fault, because then whose fault was it? I wasn’t just a puppet from day one!”

Mary nodded, and Ginny spun on her heel, turning to pace as she continued to rant: “And Hermione’s all, ‘It’s okay, Ginny,’ and ‘No one blames you, Ginny,’ and ‘You were only eleven – it’s not surprising that he managed to trick you,’ and ‘The important thing is you got away!’ But it’s _not_ okay and they _should_ blame me, and even if it’s not surprising, that doesn’t mean it was all _him_. I made choices! Bad ones, but they were still _mine_! I – I…” she trailed off, and Mary hazarded a guess at comforting behavior. It wasn’t really something she’d had a lot of practice with.

“Do you want a hug?”

“No,” the younger girl scowled, but she threw her arms around Mary anyway, tucking her head between the Slytherin’s neck and shoulder, pinning her arms to her sides and squeezing as though she meant to crush the air out of the shorter girl. Mary was certain it was the most violent embrace she had ever experienced.

“Um…?” She patted the redhead’s shaking back as well as she could, until the Gryffindor let her breathe again. By the time she did, there was a damp spot on the shoulder of her robes, unnoticed until it started growing uncomfortably cold.

“I wouldn’t have survived,” Ginny said, taking a deep breath herself and settling back into her chair. “She doesn’t understand. She has all of my memories, and she still doesn’t get it – I didn’t _escape._ The only reason I’m _alive_ is because _he_ stopped me from killing myself. Over and over. He… It was like a game to him. Let me try, let me get close, but then heal me, make me step back, make me go back to my room and forget anything ever happened. I – I’m not stronger than him. I’m weak. I _was_ weak. And every time they act like I need protecting, it’s like they’re saying I still am – like they’re saying I’ll never get better. Never _be_ better. Like I’m always going to be his victim, now.”

“But, um…”

“What?” Ginny’s eyes flashed threateningly.

“Well, you wouldn’t have wanted to die if it weren’t for him, either,” Mary said cautiously, beating back the guilt she felt just being related to the monster that was Tom Riddle. “I… I think I might have done the same, if he was in my head like that. If you’re weak, I am, too,” she offered. Ginny, miraculously, remained silent, obviously hanging on her words, disbelief etched across her features. She began to feel intensely self-conscious, and tried to explain. “I mean, look at what happened in the Chamber – he got us to agree to modify our memories. It’s driving me nuts that I can’t figure out how, what he must have said or done, or if there was magic involved, or what, and I can’t even _imagine_ how much worse it would have been if I _did_ know, or if it was a whole year, and not just three days. I mean, you might not be stronger than him, but this _is_ the fucking Dark Lord we’re talking about, and he _was_ older than us, and I’m pretty sure you’re stronger than _I_ am, because if it was me, I might have killed myself _after_ , when he couldn’t stop me anymore.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth at that admission. She hadn’t meant to say it, but she realized as she did that it was true. If she had been made so thoroughly into a victim as Ginny had been, she didn’t know whether she would have been able to find her way back to being anything else.

Brown eyes met hers, growing wide with shock. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“I can’t believe I did either.” Mary could feel her face glowing red. Ginny, in contrast, was very, very pale.

They were both silent for a long moment, before Ginny said, in a very small voice, “I nearly did, you know. In Egypt. They… They were watching me, all the time, my family. I only got away from them one night, went up on the roof of the hotel. I almost jumped. I think. I don’t know if I really believed I could do it. I think I half-expected him to stop me, you know? Even though I _knew_ he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.”

Mary nodded, fascinated and horrified, though she _didn’t_ actually _know_.

“Charlie found me,” the Gryffindor admitted, “standing on the ledge, looking down. I don’t know how long I was there, but I was working myself up to it. And he talked me down. He – we talked about monsters.”

“Riddle?”

Ginny shook her head. “ _Me_ ,” she admitted, in a very small voice. “I… he possessed me. He was _inside_ my head. It was… I felt dirty. I still do, every time I think of him. Like I’m infected with his evil, or something. I… I wanted to get rid of that feeling more than I wanted to live, I think. I – I still do, sometimes.”

_That_ Mary did understand. Not the ‘more than I wanted to live’ part, but feeling dirty and tainted by their association? _That_ she understood all too well. It was her turn to pace around the room, now, she decided, seeing as she was already moving, unconsciously.

After a few long minutes, the younger girl glared at her again, the expression at odds with the complete vulnerability in her body language and painted across her face. “Say something,” she demanded.

Mary stopped and turned to look at her. She felt rather light-headed, and her mouth was not entirely under her control as she said, “He’s my grandfather.”

“What?” The other girl’s response was flat and confused.

“You can’t tell anyone – no one knows. Not even Lilian or Hermione. Riddle… he was my mother’s… sire.” She was pretty sure that was the pureblood term for a father who had disowned a child, or never acknowledged them in the first place. “Snape figured it out… made a potion to confirm. He’s the only one who knows.”

Ginny looked as shocked as Mary felt. There was a long silence, and then: “I won’t. Tell anyone, that is,” she said rather faintly.

All at once, the Slytherin felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “You’re not a monster, you know,” she replied. “No more than I am. And you’re not a victim, either.”

“What am I, then?” she asked challengingly, a weak imitation of her usual Gryffindor bravado.

Mary shrugged. “A survivor?” she suggested.

Perhaps if Ginny hadn’t looked so relieved, as though she was clinging to that label, embracing it on some fundamental level, or perhaps if Mary hadn’t just suffered a bout of temporary insanity and spilled one of her most tightly held secrets to a second-year Gryffindor who wasn’t even one of her closest friends, resulting in one of the strangest bonding moments she had ever had, she wouldn’t have made the offer she did. But the younger girl nodded and whispered _okay_ , still looking a bit _lost_ , and it had seemed like a good idea to keep an eye on her for a while, and Mary herself was _more_ than ready to change the subject (and suddenly feeling more than a little self-conscious for oversharing), so she said, “I have to go meet Blaise and Theo. We’re hunting a boggart. Want to come?”

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

Snape had caught them while they were arguing over the cat.

The short version of the story was, boggart-hunting did not go well at all. It turned out that Blaise’s expertise in relocating boggarts was of little use if they couldn’t find a boggart to attempt to capture in the first place, and after two hours of combing the dungeons for nooks and crannies where one might hide, they were forced to admit that there simply might not be one in the castle at the moment.

It was then that Blaise suggested, in the manner of one who is fed up with tromping around in the dark making no particular progress, that it might have been faster to just summon a fresh boggart, rather than look for one to capture. He probably didn’t expect Mary to wholeheartedly endorse the idea. Theo had his reservations, but he didn’t speak up against it, and Blaise had (with a fairly significant degree of surprise at their amenability) agreed to try his hand at actually doing so.

In all fairness, once she realized what the ritual entailed, Mary was much less interested in completing it, but by that point, Blaise was already invested and excited about it.

“I’m not letting you sacrifice that cat!” Ginny insisted, stomping in circles, obviously frustrated with the boys.

“I agree,” Mary said. Blaise had said nothing about a sacrifice when she had asked him why they couldn’t have just summoned a boggart in the first place. But then, that might have been because he obviously didn’t see it as a problem.

He was, after all, the one who had been holding and petting the piebald beast, even as he was suggesting they kill it, calmly explaining that its life-blood was necessary to thin the barriers between planes enough to pull the boggart through. Theo had found a bit of chalk in an abandoned classroom, and was tracing what he called a gateway diagram on a desk at the front of the room.

“It _belongs_ to someone, Zabini! For all you know, it’s a _familiar_!”

“That just means its death will have more power,” he pointed out. “But if you’d rather use a stray, go find one while Theo and I finish up,” he added dismissively. “I’m not stopping you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this was a sacrificial sort of thing?” Mary groused.

“Are we doing this or not?” Theo asked. He had agreed rather reluctantly to contribute his own questionable expertise to the project, given that Blaise wasn’t entirely sure about how the runes and such worked, and had been willing to ‘wing it’ – a strategy which had appalled the shorter boy. There was a certain smugness around the corners of the Italian’s mouth that suggested Theo had fallen neatly into his plan, as though he had been counting on the other boy’s participation all along. But Theo was still clearly nervous, even if they weren’t about to ‘probably blow themselves up like bloody idiots.’

Mary was, too, to be honest. She was fairly certain that this was _not_ the sort of thing they ought to be doing, especially without a bit more preparation. And she _really_ didn’t like the idea of killing the cat, even if Blaise did say that he would do it and spare her squeamish, girly sensibilities. Prat.

“No,” Ginny insisted, just as Blaise said, “ _Yes_. Here, hold the cat, Mary.”

The cat, perhaps sensing her unease, leapt from her arms as soon as Blaise handed it over, and ran for the door. In all honesty, she had not tried very hard to stop it. This was, however, the impetus for the four of them to turn in the same direction, at which point they spotted a rather irritated Professor Snape leaning against the wall, one eyebrow raised and his customary sneer in place, clearly intending to see how far they were willing to take this impromptu summoning ritual.

“Erm… How long have you been there, sir?” Mary asked.

Snape didn’t answer. “My office,” he snapped instead. “ _Now_.”

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

When none of them volunteered an answer to Snape’s question, he zeroed in on Theo. “Mr. Nott, perhaps you would care to explain how you know the diagram for the Gate of Iskandar?”

“No, sir,” the boy answered smartly, obviously meaning that he did not care to answer, but at Snape’s sharp glare, he added, somewhat reluctantly, “Independent study?”

“The same independent study, I suppose, that has Mr. Zabini fooling about with Shadowmancy?”

“Erm… no, sir,” Theo said. “Different programmes, as it were.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, but he let the answer stand for the moment. “And Mr. Zabini? Was one detention regarding Demonic Congress insufficient to convince you of the severity of your actions? Or are you simply too arrogant to believe you would be punished for your transgression?”

“Well, _technically_ we didn’t actually _do_ anything…” Blaise drawled.

“I assure you,” Snape cut him off, “that what I witnessed was more than sufficient evidence to convince the Headmaster that you had every intention of following through with your summoning. And you _must_ know that as your Head of House I am obligated to take such evidence far more seriously than a few potentially facetious phrases employed in testing the knowledge and skills of the latest Defense professor.”

“Are – are you threatening to expel me, sir?” Blaise actually looked shaken, now, as well as slightly sullen. It was the latter that came across in his tone when he added, “I thought you were cooler than Professor Wolf-Wolf.”

Mary punched him in the arm at that, hard.

He yelped, rubbing at the spot. She hoped it bruised. “ _What_?! Stop _hitting_ me, you violent _heathen-child_!”

“ _Ginny_!” she hissed. The girl in question was leaning around Theo to look at the two of them with unveiled suspicion.

Blaise leaned around her as well to meet the Gryffindor’s eyes as he said, “Oh come _on_ , what else am I going to call _Remus Lupin_? You’re the one who’s acting like it’s a big deal – she wouldn’t be half so suspicious if –” Before he could finish his sentence (which Mary was betting would have been ‘if you hadn’t hit me’), he cut himself off, clapping his hands over his ears with a strained gasp. “ _Sir_ ,” he whined.

“If I catch you attempting _that_ again, Mr. Zabini,” the professor said, his tone dangerously cold, “expulsion will be the _least_ of your concerns. Consider yourself warned.”

Blaise nodded reluctantly, gently massaging his temples. The girls exchanged a look and a shrug, as Theo groaned. “You _didn’t_ ,” he muttered under his breath. No one answered him, or addressed the girls’ confusion.

Professor Snape, in fact, ignored them completely. “Mr. Zabini, you will have detention with me… every Sunday for the last hour before curfew, from now until the Easter Holiday. Mr. Nott, your library privileges are rescinded for that same period. I will inform Madam Pince this evening.”

Theo looked even more appalled than Blaise. “But – but what about _homework_?!”

“You will not be allowed to take books out, nor will you be allowed in the restricted section, regardless of notes from any other professor. Count yourself lucky that this is your first offense. _Next_ time, I will be informing your father of your _independent studies_.”

At that, Theo blanched, and Blaise looked rather ill. “Does that mean you’re writing my mother?” he asked.

Snape hummed nastily. “I’m sure she will be most intrigued to hear that her son has been casually showing off knowledge and skills he has no business knowing in school.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“ _Language_ , Mr. Zabini.”

“Please, sir –”

“Save it for someone who will actually be _fooled_ by your act, Mr. Zabini,” Snape advised him with a contemptuous sneer.

Blaise’s features immediately reverted to a blank mask, and he slouched even further into his chair, every pore exuding sullenness. “ _Fine_.”

“And you will present yourselves for detention tomorrow evening with Mr. Filch,” the professor drawled. _Well bugger,_ Mary thought. That meant she was going to have to miss Dueling Club – she would have to make a point of going to an open practice session next weekend instead: between homework, hospitalizations, and this latest Hogsmeade weekend (which meant none of the approved supervisors were present in the Castle), she still hadn’t managed to make it to one yet. All of this ran through her head in the course of Snape’s long, dramatic pause. “ _All_ of you.”

“But I didn’t _do_ anything!” Ginny objected.

“You didn’t walk away, either,” Snape snapped. “ _You_ may consider yourself lucky that I have not involved your Head of House in this punishment. Professor McGonagall is _far_ less forgiving than myself regarding attempted use of the Dark Arts.”

The Gryffindor subsided at once. Mary, who had held her tongue throughout all of this, accepting her punishment silently, winced at the thought of the Professor getting involved. She was sure that wouldn’t be pretty. As though her wince had drawn his attention, Snape’s gaze finally fixed on her.

“ _Miss Potter_ ,” he nearly sighed. Mary fancied there was a bit of exasperation there. “How is it that half of the disciplinary problems I must deal with in some way or another involve yourself? It is as though you go _seeking out trouble_ , you insufferable child. I have _no_ doubt whatsoever that you are somehow behind all of this, so tell me: _Why_ were four underclassmen attempting to summon a boggart into my dungeons?"

The girl winced. That was… unfortunately truer than she would have liked, especially so soon after the Honor Duel incident. “I was, um… that is… erm…”

“ _What have I told you about stuttering_?”

Blaise sniggered, apparently recovered from his close brush with expulsion, and Mary caught Theo failing to suppress a smirk out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t, sir?” She paused to collect her thoughts before making another stab at speaking. “As you know, I’ve been trying to master the Patronus Charm. I’ve been practicing against a boggart in lessons, because my boggart takes the shape of a dementor, and I wanted one to work with during my free time as well. We were just trying to find one in an out-of-the-way corner, but we didn’t see any, so Blaise said we might as well have just summoned one for our trouble, and, erm…” She hesitated to implicate herself, but Snape glared at her for stuttering again, so she finished with a resigned sigh. “I said that sounded like a good idea to me. Theo was just trying to make sure we didn’t mess it up too badly and hurt ourselves. Ginny didn’t have anything to do with it. She was just tagging along.”

A rather tense silence followed as she awaited his response. Finally he said, “ _Very well_. You will serve detention with Mr. Filch both Saturday and Sunday evenings next weekend as well as tomorrow. And if you are truly interested in mastering the Patronus Charm, you might try the Tempering Chamber.”

“Tempering Chamber?” Mary asked. Ginny and the boys echoed her. It sounded vaguely familiar, like something she might have read about in _Hogwarts: A History_ , years ago, and promptly forgotten about.

Snape nodded. “One of Godric Gryffindor’s… less popular additions to the school. I understand that until the late 1800s, all Gryffindors were expected to experience it in a sort of hazing ritual, and again as an end-of-school challenge.”

“What is it?” the only Gryffindor among them asked.

“It is, quite simply, a room that makes you face your fears, your flaws, and your weaknesses. It functions not unlike the Sorting Hat, but with a very distinct agenda. My understanding is that it was intended to shape students to appreciate Gryffindor’s noble warrior ethos in the absence of actual wars in which they could participate.”

Mary bit her lip, considering. It sounded daunting, but if it made her face her fears, she supposed it would be, functionally, quite similar to a boggart. If she could cast a Patronus there, she could probably cast it anywhere. It had to be worth a shot. “Where is it, sir?”

“First dungeon level; there’s a closed door at the west end of the North-East Portrait Gallery. The password is _chivalry_. Now be gone with you all. I _do_ have more important things to do today than tracking down wayward would-be troublemakers. Do not forget to report to Mr. Filch after dinner tomorrow.”

The students filed out, Blaise defiantly refusing to mutter “Yes, sir” along with the others. They parted ways almost at once, Mary’s curiosity about the Tempering Chamber at odds with the others’ irritation about their punishment. She did rather wonder whether this meant that the boys would be angry with her until Easter. Callous though it might be to think it, Ginny didn’t exactly have enough friends to shun the few people who would associate with her, and she had only got one night’s detention, so she probably wouldn’t hold a grudge too long.

As for the boys, there was nothing to be done about it immediately: if they were upset, surely trying to make them talk about it right away would be even more irritating? And besides, it might have been her idea, but she was pretty sure it was mostly Blaise’s fault they had got in trouble in the first place. If he had listened to her and Ginny when they said to stop, or if Theo hadn’t gone along with him, they wouldn’t have at all. Theo, at least, would probably recognize that, though she had a sneaking suspicion she might be spending the next eight weeks supplying him with books to make it up to him for getting him involved.

She dismissed the issue for the moment and returned to her room, wondering impatiently how much longer Lilian and Hermione would be in returning from Hogsmeade. She could hardly wait to discuss a trip to the Tempering Room as soon as possible.

###  Sunday, 20 February 1994

#### Daphne’s Tea Parlor

To Mary’s immense irritation, making that visit to the Tempering Room did not, in fact, happen ‘as soon as possible,’ for multiple reasons. Chief among these was that neither Hermione nor Lilian was quite ready to make another go at the Patronus again only three days after their last attempt. Hermione pled exhaustion and Lilian busy-ness, and no matter how excited Mary was to try out the new room, she was wary enough of Snape’s recent reminder about overconfidence not to go exploring the school alone. After all, if the Room behaved like a boggart, or worse, a dementor, she might end up incapacitated there, which would be terribly embarrassing. Plus it would be nice to have a friend along anyway, for morale.

The fact that she _could_ have gone alone, but didn’t, did not make her any less irritated to find herself in the empty classroom Daphne had appropriated for her tea parties the following afternoon. The prior engagement which she had conveniently allowed to slip her mind was the other reason exploring the Room was right out.

There were about twenty girls at any given tea party, not including the third-year Slytherins. A few older students – mostly Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, the sort who recognized the value of making connections, even with the younger years – had come, but for the most part the tables (carefully arranged by familial and personal status, favors owed, and Daphne and Lilian’s estimation of the relative value of each girl’s future connections) were filled with first- and second-years, eager to interact, even in a highly restricted way, with the Girl Who Lived.

They were, as Mary had found at the first party she had attended, disproportionately Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs (the ones who had not been entirely put off by the title Heir of Slytherin), with a few scattered Ravenclaws. She supposed that most of the Ravens were preoccupied by their own studies or projects, while any Slytherin who cared to could approach her in the Common Room or the Great Hall without owing Daphne for the honor of an introduction.

Mary was well aware that she was being used as a bargaining chip to undermine Fay Dunbar’s hold on her Gryffin-puff clique. Popularity games weren’t exactly her cup of tea, or of any particular interest, beyond any attempts to use her fame as leverage within them, but she would have had to be both blind and deaf not to know about this, given Blaise’s complaining about Daphne spending all her time with The Girls and Lilian’s endless plotting. Apparently her best friend had at some point decided that Mary’s sarcastic suggestion that she and Catherine ought to just manage Mary’s life for her should be taken at face value, and since she didn’t want to upset Mary again by going behind her back about it, the logical conclusion was to talk Mary’s ear off about it, despite the fact that she was decidedly Not Interested.

She had had high hopes, for a brief period, that this party would be better than the last she had been dragged into… was it really before the hols?

In any case, Nora, her second-year minion, had asked whether she could attend, and Mary, of course, had said yes. It wasn’t as though Daphne would refuse to accommodate the only request she had made since the inception of the parties, and it wasn’t as though she was dragging Hermione along, or Luna. Nora was a Slytherin, and a half-blood raised by her pureblood family: even if German (or rather Frankish) tea-party etiquette was somewhat different than that of Magical Britain, Mary was confident that she could be trusted not to accidentally offend anyone too badly (or on purpose, as Luna might do just for giggles).

Mary had been hoping that Nora would be another friendly (non-sycophantic) face to talk to (alongside Lilian, Daphne, and occasionally Sadie), but whether by accident or design, the younger girl had been seated with two Hufflepuffs and a Ravenclaw, and seemed to be more than content to make nice with them, discussing the differences in Continental and British pureblood customs, so far as Mary could overhear. If she didn’t know better, she would have suspected her minion of pulling a Davis – trying to elevate herself within the social hierarchy by establishing relationships with purebloods, much as Tracey had done with Pansy and Millicent. But she couldn’t be – if she were, she would never have allowed herself to be seen with Dave.

The Girl Who Lived, in contrast, had been seated with Daphne, Lilian, Pansy, Lyssa Selwyn (fourth-year Slytherin), and Marietta Edgecombe (fourth-year Ravenclaw). Selwyn and Edgecombe had been engaged in conversation almost immediately by Pansy, comparing their various Ministry connections, while Daphne and Lilian chatted about Professor D’Onofrio latest in-class discussion (Grindelwald: good ideas, poor execution, or entirely misguided). Mary was left fending off the occasional attempt to draw her into the Ministry conversation (it wouldn’t do to reveal how little she actually knew about the Ministry’s function and the power-structures within it – something to write Catherine about, she noted), and making the occasional comment on the stupidity of trying to define the Greater Good, let alone achieve it through war.

The worst part was, this was the _best_ part of the whole affair: before they actually sat down to tea, there had been _mingling_ , and afterward there would be _more_ mingling as they all said their farewells. Mary had already been introduced to three more namesakes (first-years Marie, Mary-Anne, and Mariah, all of whom seemed to think that Mary would find it fascinating that their parents had named them after her, instead of moderately creepy), and was not looking forward to the process of everyone trying to speak to her one last time before they departed. She didn’t care if it was polite for them to bid farewell to everyone at the hostess’s table before they took their leave, she still found it entirely uncomfortable how much some of the girls wanted her acknowledgment.

She was certain that half of the reason she had been seated there was that she would be forced to talk to everyone at least once, and couldn’t skip out early. (The other half was, of course, that she was the unacknowledged guest of honor, and it would have been inappropriate to seat her anywhere other than at Daphne’s table.)

She would much rather have been exploring the Tempering Chamber. Even the hospital wing might have been an improvement. At least there were no little kids staring at her as though she was their hero there.

The part that made it truly miserable, though, was that she could actually imagine this being fun, in other circumstances: getting all dressed up and playing hostess herself, as she had over the holiday, for example, or even with a smaller gathering of actual friends. It would still be another year and a half or so before she could start attending (or hosting) more intimate parties, at least according to Catherine. She attempted to stifle a groan, and did not quite succeed.

“What was that, Elizabeth?” Daphne inquired politely.

Mary sighed, cobbling together a reasonable lie. “I only just recalled that I have a prior engagement this evening with Mr. Filch, courtesy of our Head of House.”

The girls, with varying degrees of curiosity, nodded their sympathy.

“What happened?” Edgecombe asked, her eyes alight with excitement at the prospect of juicy gossip.

“Oh, a minor indiscretion over the Hogsmeade weekend,” she replied airily.

“Involving Mr. Zabini and Mr. Nott, perhaps?” Pansy asked.

“Ooh, what _sort_ of indiscretion?” Lilian teased.

Mary gave her friend her best inscrutable smile. Lilian knew very well what sort of indiscretion. But she certainly couldn’t admit that she had been caught attempting to summon a boggart, and Lilian knew _that_ , too. Unfortunately, the only other thing she could think of was decidedly suggestive and innuendo-esque. Not that that was inappropriate for the tone of the conversation, she just didn’t fancy the thought of the entire school talking about her dating one or both of her closest male friends.

She said it anyway: “I’m sure you can imagine.”

The other girls tittered, and returned to their own conversations, throwing the occasional speculative look at Mary. She smirked superiorly at them whenever she caught them. (‘When in doubt, always act as though you know everything, and everything is under control’ was one of Catherine’s rules for successfully navigating unfamiliar social waters.)

Meanwhile, however, she silently counted the seconds until the afternoon’s diversion would _finally_ be over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Also, anyone who likes this portrayal of Ginny's character and her experience with Tom might find the last few one-shots I posted to be of interest. They're canon-compliant, rather than MP compliant, though.]


	31. The Room of Doom

###  Saturday, 26 February 1994

#### Gryffindor’s Tempering Room

“This,” Mary declared, looking over the assembled group before her, “is ridiculous.”

“What?” Draco drawled. “The part where… seven Slytherins and three Ravenclaws agreed to undergo some sort of Gryffindor challenge of bravery, or the part where we all seem to be having second thoughts? Because the latter seems eminently reasonable to me…”

“The part where any of you are here at all, when I couldn’t get anyone to come last weekend!”

Last weekend, she hadn’t been able to find _anyone_ who wanted to explore the Tempering Room with her, and now there were _thirteen_ of them. (Not only had word spread quickly as Mary, Ginny, and Blaise invited their friends to come exploring, but Dave, Alex, Luna, and Aerin, who hadn’t actually been invited by anyone, had followed along when the others left the Great Hall under the assumption that whatever they were doing was bound to be interesting.) They had all made their way to the portrait gallery after lunch, and hesitated when faced with the door to the chamber.

“Last weekend we had plans,” Lilian reminded her with a teasing grin. _Boring_ plans, Mary thought, but didn’t say it, because Daphne was only a few feet away, chatting quietly with Blaise (Theo hadn’t come), and she was still loath to offend the socialite.

“Are we going to do this or not?” Ginny asked loudly, gesturing at the door. She and Neville had arrived last, and were thus farthest from it.

The twins broke off their whispered debate with Hermione to answer in their usual irritating fashion: “Of course,” “we’re going to do it!” “Go on,” “open the door!”

Mary was the closest. She hesitated. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go through with it, now that she was here, but she didn’t want to go _first_ , especially in front of so many people. She wasn’t exactly keen on having the whole lot of them see her fears, or whatever would happen when they opened the door.

“Not _scared_ , are you, Potter?”

“Shut up, Malfoy!” Personally she rather thought he would be afraid, too, if he actually understood what the chamber was supposed to do. She was sure he was more of a coward than her, and she didn’t think he would have agreed to come if Lilian had told him that they expected it to be as bad as a boggart-dementor.

“Seriously?!” Ginny demanded, pushing her way to the front of the crowd.

“What, you want first crack at it, Gryffindor?” Blaise teased, then flung an arm around Daphne, whispering something in her ear.

The redheaded girl looked around. No one else was volunteering. “Fine!” she exclaimed sounding a bit exasperated. She placed a hand on the door and said “ _Chivalry!_ ” in a tone that suggested she was not nearly as nervous as Mary.

There were several clicks and a ratcheting sound, before the door gave way a few inches with a small creak. The assembled students stared at it in silence. Ginny extended her fingers, pushing it open.

Nothing happened. It was not a _room_ behind the door, but a passage, its floor sloping upward, the walls lined with what seemed to be charcoal sketches.

“Wait, Gin,” one of her brothers said, as she looked about to step forward. His twin nodded. “We’ll go first.”

She glared at them. “Like hell you will!”

She stepped into the passage.

Still, nothing happened.

It was very anticlimactic.

“Ha!” the young Gryffindor exclaimed. “You were all scared for nothing. Come on!”

She strode off down the passage, and the others followed with varying degrees of excitement and reluctance, until only Mary and Neville were left.

“Coming?” she asked.

He looked terrified, but he nodded and offered her his arm. She took it, suspecting that he might need the extra incentive to keep moving forward. She refused to think about the fact that she might as well.

The door closed behind them with a creak and a thud, cutting off most of the light. It wasn’t clear where the remaining light was actually coming from. The white backgrounds of the pictures on the walls, perhaps? Ahead they heard a shout, echoing strangely down the passage, and reflected, nervous giggles. The sketches, more abstract than any other art Mary had seen at Hogwarts, grew darker as they proceeded, more shading, less white – less light. They also grew more… violent, somehow. Bolder slashes against the canvas, sharper shapes, moving (as all magical paintings seemed to do) more frenetically, threatening. The ceiling grew lower as the floor sloped more sharply, and the walls closed in. There was a distinct feeling of discomfort, a repulsion. It was decidedly creepy, like a sensation of being watched crawling up and down her spine. She wanted to go back. It was only the arm under her hand that stopped her from doing so – that and her curiosity about what lay at the end of the passage.

Snape wouldn’t have sent them into _actual danger_ , would he? Especially inside the school?

The passage ended with a small door – Mary had to crouch to pass through it – which opened onto a round room with a ceiling high enough to stand comfortably, and large enough for all twelve of the other explorers to stand around, shifting awkwardly. Sketches made almost completely of angry black scribbles lined the walls. Mary couldn’t make out any of the others’ faces in the dark, but she suspected that they were all trying to decide if it was worth it to be the first one to leave. She certainly was, and she had only just arrived. Neville was trembling slightly, and she was clutching his arm far more tightly than was really polite.

“Oh, good, you made it!” Luna said, her cheerful tone distinctly out of place. “We’re ready, Desmond!”

Before anyone could object that they _weren’t_ ready (for what, Mary didn’t know), or ask who _Desmond_ was, there was a strange, lurching, twisting sensation, as though the entire room was rotating. No sooner had Mary realized that the door through which they had entered was now inaccessible than the world around her blinked out.

It was becoming nigh-depressingly common, she reflected, to be wrenched out of her body and thrust into some sort of mental space without warning. In the last year alone there had been Mabon, the Isolation detention, and, most recently, Imbolc. She was almost _used to_ this now (and wasn’t that a terrifying thought…) so she did not immediately panic on realizing that she was observing a muggle schoolyard from a rather dizzying perspective that seemed to allow her to see everything at once, from every angle. It was a bit unsettling to realize that the tiny, unkempt child in the oversized skirt and ugly button-up was her six-year-old self, but once she did, she thought she knew what was happening.

A memory was playing out before her as she watched from her intangible, third-person perspective. Recognizing herself helped her focus, and narrow her perspective to a still-odd but less-confusing single point of view – more like watching a film play out with the occasional shift in camera angle, rather than seeing the action from all sides at once.

She cringed slightly as she realized _which_ memory it was: the first time she had seen Dudley and his gang bullying someone else on the playground, in Year 1.

Dudley had only been slightly overweight, then: a stocky, pudgy boy with mean little eyes and hands that liked to pinch and grab things that weren’t his to take. She watched, unable to do anything to change the scene, as Piers and Malcom distracted their target, a boy named Paul. Dudley crept up behind him and snatched the jumper he had tied around his shoulders over his head, and ran away laughing. Paul chased him, of course, but Dudley threw the jumper to Piers, who threw it to Malcom as Paul raced futilely between them, never quite able to catch it. He grew more and more frustrated, to the point of angry tears.

Six-year-old Mary watched quietly from her place atop the monkey-bars (safely out of reach of Dudley and his friends) until a teacher intervened and shouted her over.

“I’m telling you, Miss, we was just playin’ Piggy in the Middle!” Dudley said, his tone the false-innocent one she knew all too well. “We didn’ do nothin’ wrong!”

“He _took_ my sweater, an’ they _wouldn’t give it back_! Ask Mary – she was watching!” Paul insisted, turning hopeful eyes on her six-year-old self.

“ _Mary_ ,” the teacher said forbiddingly. “Did your cousin take Paul’s jumper?”

_Thirteen_ -year-old Mary vaguely recalled the thoughts that had run through her mind at that moment: she had been so glad that it wasn’t her in the middle of that little circle of misery, so relieved to have a respite from their attentions, that she hadn’t said anything. Of course, she had later realized that it didn’t matter what she did or didn’t do – she was always going to be a target for Dudley’s sadistic boredom, but at that moment, keeping her mouth shut had seemed like the best option.

The small, ragged girl shook her head in a way she had probably hoped looked shy. From an outsider’s perspective, thirteen-year-old Mary noted, her face held a mixture of guilt and hope – she must have truly thought that if she defended them, the boys would leave her be. The teacher seemed to read something malicious in her expression, though, or more likely in the fact that she had lied at all (for the fact that she _was_ lying was only too clear in her failure to meet Paul’s eyes, or the teacher’s, and Paul’s shocked reaction to her silent answer). She hadn’t noticed back then how the teacher’s face had hardened – clearly she had thought that Mary was every bit as bad as the boys – and how Dudley and Piers had grinned at each other triumphantly behind her back, but it was painfully obvious to her now.

She _had_ noticed how Paul’s mouth had dropped open, as though he had truly thought she would support him, and she had failed him, but she was pretty sure she had missed the hatred that bloomed in the wake of her lie, now directed equally at her and Dudley’s gang. That more than anything made her want to wince at the memory: it was suddenly much clearer why not even Dudley’s other victims had wanted to associate with her in school.

More memories followed, mostly from her early years: lying to Petunia about her marks (better than Dudley’s) and where she had been all afternoon while the chores went undone (hiding from Dudley) and what had happened to her aunt’s new trousers (the rear seam ‘inexplicably’ weakened one afternoon after a particularly long and awful lecture on how much she owed the Dursleys for taking her in); lying to teachers about how she was treated at home, and why her homework wasn’t done, and why she had missed another day of school; lying to the neighbors about why she was always the one doing the garden work, and how she’d got the latest bruises on her arms, and again about whether the Dursleys treated her well.

That one was probably the most vile, in hindsight. She wondered how different her life might have been if she had only been able to bring herself to tell someone, two or three or five years before the Hogwarts letter arrived, that she lived in a cupboard and was treated like her relatives’ servant-girl at best. She had thought that things would only get worse, but maybe she had been wrong. Maybe it would have made a difference, and she wouldn’t be wondering about it now.

She saw herself filching food from the school kitchens on the days when school lunches were her only meals, and railed against whatever intelligence was directing the process: _You don’t understand! I was_ hungry!

She had no excuse, though, when it showed her stealing money from her aunt’s purse, just to hide it, buried in an old coffee can in the back flowerbed. Her eight-year-old self had planned to use it one day to run away, though she had more often used it to buy herself food when she missed too many meals in the summer. She wondered belatedly if Aunt Petunia had ever done any gardening after she left, and if so, whether she had found the thirty-odd pounds Mary had squirreled away over the years.

The memories grew clearer as she, the Mary in them, grew older – sharper. And then something changed. Instead of just observing, she was thrown into the mind of the person she had wronged, feeling the blows she might have prevented by interceding rain down on the head of a younger boy – something Carter; Mrs. Putnam’s guilt at not being able to do anything for her, because she simply refused to speak up; the embarrassment Aunt Petunia had felt when she split her pants in front of all of her friends, and when she was five quid short at the grocer’s because Mary had liberated a note from her that morning; the helpless confusion and rage the youngest cook at the school experienced when he was fired because food was going missing on his shift.

Mary hadn’t even _been_ there when _that_ happened, but she knew it was a direct result of her actions.

She wanted to say _better them than me_ , but with the echoes of their experience resonating in her mind, she couldn’t quite justify it. The fact was, she had lied, stolen, and stood by when she could have chosen not to, and in so doing, had made other people’s lives harder. _Worse_.

They had suffered so that she wouldn’t.

_I can’t do anything about it now, though!_

The Chamber had an answer for that, though.

It began showing her more recent memories, of her lying to Lilian about her relationship with Snape; hiding the Evil Undead Grandfather Thing from both her and Hermione; not quite finding the words and the nerve to defend Neville from his grandmother and Draco, at the dueling club meeting only three weeks before; refusing to go into the Chamber of Secrets after Ginny, valuing her own life over the younger girl’s.

It wasn’t a difficult message to comprehend. _Stop lying. Stand up for others._

Still, she felt that she was justified in keeping some things, like the Evil Undead Grandfather Thing, to herself – or at least mostly. And she had stood up for Dave against the other Slytherins, hadn’t she?

The chamber switched tracks, abruptly. At first Mary didn’t know what was going on: Snape seemed to be sitting in his private chambers (or at least she assumed they were his private chambers, because she doubted he ever looked so relaxed anywhere else), drinking whisky and staring at a basket of scrolls as though they had threatened his life, or mortally offended him, or possibly both. Looking closer, she realized that he was reading her essay on the Veritaserum conspiracy. Guilt and anxiety leached through her as he rubbed absently at his left forearm. Had something she had written disturbed him? Was it trying to tell her that he had been upset because she had told him she no longer trusted him?

_Are you telling me it was wrong to tell him the truth, now?!_ Mary thought at the room.

It showed her an image of Snape sitting by her hospital bed after her duel, waiting for her to regain consciousness, and the Professor after the dementors attacked the Quidditch match. She felt Remus’ and Snape’s anger and worry and hatred and… fear? as they fought over access to her unconscious form.

_None of that was_ my _fault!_

The next scene was of Mary brushing off one of her many close calls to an anxious Hermione and Lilian, followed by a snippet of her apologizing to Daphne. The combination of memories repeated twice, spelling out a message it was difficult to misinterpret.

_Fine! I’ll apologize for worrying them! – But it still wasn’t my fault!_

The next one definitely _was_ her fault, though: Catherine and Aunt Minnie were sitting in a parlor with Mrs. Urquhart and Madam Urquhart. The tension and guilt and anxiety was nearly enough to choke her. A letter arrived, delivered by an elf from wherever the owl had landed.

Aunt Minnie read it aloud, her voice strained. “’Dear Professor McGonagall, I am at the Grangers’ house. I broke an arm and maybe cracked a rib in a flying accident, but other than that, I am safe and well…’ It’s not her handwriting, Morgana! It’s not – I have to go. I’ll send a message when I know more.”

She apparated to the Grangers’ and Mary was assaulted first by the Professor’s worry and guilt, and then her anger as Dan refused to fetch Mary, and Dan’s fear and anger at the witch invading his house, and the Professor’s _offense_ when Dan threatened to throw her out of the house.

Before those sensations completely faded away, she was sitting in the Grangers’ car, at the beginning of the summer, as she and Hermione recounted their adventures to the Doctors Granger, this time feeling their horror and revulsion at the dangerous antics Mary had involved their daughter in over the course of two years.

Mary herself felt ill: it was only a matter of time until they realized what Hermione had been up to this year, and she couldn’t help but feel ashamed at the part she had played in encouraging Hermione to begin over-using the time-turner, facilitating her Dark Arts research. After all, half the questions she was researching had to do with Mary and her predicament.

A sense of satisfaction rolled through her, as though the chamber itself was saying _yessss… now we’re getting somewhere_.

Another montage: Colin Creevey, astonished and terrified to be dragged up before the professors; too many proud, awestruck girls called some variation of Mary; the Headmaster, anxious and desperate as she rebuffed him at Christmas second year; Draco Malfoy on the train, horribly jealous and longing to impress her; Ronald Weasley, embarrassed and angry when he realized she had lied to him just for her own amusement, first about her name, and then about what had happened at the end of their first year.

A seemingly endless parade of her fellow Slytherins, torn between admiration and feeling terribly, terribly threatened by her defense of Dave in the Commons and in her duel with Bletchley; hating her, almost palpably, for being both the Girl Who Lived and the Heir – thinking her unworthy, thinking _you don’t belong_ ; envy as she made the Quidditch team only slightly tempered by their subsequent success; fear and hatred and jealousy swirling around her as she walked through the halls second year.

Draco Malfoy, nearly shitting himself with fear as a snake wrapped around his neck, poised to strike; Hagrid’s unrecognized discomfort as she hissed soothing words in Parsel to Norbert the Female Dragon in her first year; Colin Creevey again, and his little Gryffindor friend in the stands after he nearly killed her, running from her in terror as she apparently lost her mind; Chelsea Miller shivering at the unnatural sounds as Mary completely and blatantly ignored the fact that she was terrified of snakes.

_Stop! Stop it!_ Mary begged silently, drowning in negative emotions _. Please! I get it! I – I’ll apologize! I’ll – I’ll pay more attention to what I’m doing – how my actions affect others! I swear! Just – stop it! Please!_

But it didn’t: the next horror was the heart-stopping moment when Cadmus Thorpe felt his balance go, when, through her (and Lilian’s) machinations, he thought he was plummeting to his death. As soon as the impact of that emotion started to fade, she was hit with the full force of the pain he had experienced as his bones shattered on the unforgiving stone floor and his pelvis was re-grown in hospital – exponentially worse than when Madam Pomfrey had done the same for Mary’s arm.

The look of satisfaction on Flint’s face as he received Snape’s confirmation that the match was re-scheduled was uncomfortably like that on Dudley’s when she had lied about Paul.

This was followed by an endless recap of the actions of the Veritaserum Conspiracy, from the point of view of their victims: fear, helplessness, hatred, confusion, self-doubt, directionless anger. The Room forced her through their experience more effectively than even Snape’s detentions had managed to do. She hadn’t thought that she could feel any worse about that, but apparently she could.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, she found herself developing a hatred toward her younger self and the choices she had made, only reinforced by the presentation of each image, each emotion.

_I had to_ , she told herself, comprehensively failing to accomplish anything like reassurance. _I already swore I would never do anything like that again_.

She was painfully reminded of Hermione’s frustration and her own guilt as she helped Lilian pressure their older friend into using the Time Turner more; the Weasley twins’ shocked response to the girls’ ‘sudden’ expression of anger over a transgression they thought had been long forgiven; and the surprised hurt Lilian had felt when Mary stormed into the bathroom accusing her and Daphne of using Mary’s fame as the Girl Who Lived.

There was no apparent order to the snippets of memory and emotion anymore, just one foreign, negative feeling after another flowing through her, reinforcing her guilt, beating her down. It was, she understood, rather like rubbing her (figurative) nose in her mistakes, her bad choices, and the consequences of those choices over and over again.

She lost her focus, and the fragments of ill-feeling seemed to close in on her from every direction, as she tried, weakly, to fight back – to think of her happy memories, or _why_ she had done any of it, or even daily life – anything but the things the Chamber was showing her.

It was, in a word, _brutal_.

And then something within her broke. Her stubbornness, perhaps. The images and their accompanying emotional torture paused, and she experienced a moment of clarity:

_I was wrong._

_I cannot justify these actions._

_I should not have done these things._

_I am a_ horrible _person._

There was a frozen beat of mental ‘silence,’ and then everything _changed._

She was back in the stone room, curled up on the floor, hugging her knees. The pictures on the walls – if you could call them that – had stopped moving, their dark lines condensed into a single, humanoid figure. It was walking toward her, slowly, from the background of the picture directly opposite her, bringing with it a sense of foreboding. She looked around quickly, and realized that she was alone. What had happened to the others? Was all this in her head? It certainly didn’t _feel_ like it was. The handle of her wand was warm and familiar in her hand, and when she pinched herself it _hurt_.

But then she tried to cast a spell – Lumos – the _easiest_ of all possible spells – and _nothing happened._

The figure seemed to gain substance as it drew closer – in the time it had taken her to try to cast her spell, it had nearly reached the frame, a tall, hooded figure, his features shadowed. Death, maybe?

But no – a hand reached out, curled _around_ the frame, manifesting only feet from her: a grey, scabbed, slimy-looking hand.

_A dementor_.

She recoiled instinctively, trying her best to force magic through her wand – to cast the Patronus – but she couldn’t even find the power within herself, let alone make it take a form that would protect her.

White fog was rising within her mind – she was finding it hard to breathe. Any second now, she would start to hear the screaming…

But she didn’t.

The dementor loomed over her (sprawled, helpless, on the floor, but frozen in place by fear, her limbs suddenly too weak to even consider scrambling to her feet).

It inclined its head, as though looking at her – inspecting her, perhaps.

And then it… it turned away.

It turned toward Dave, toward Lilian and Hermione, somehow oblivious to its presence, on the other side of the chamber.

The boy she had sworn to protect and the two people she cared more about than any others. They were just chatting, nonchalantly, as though standing around before class, sitting ducks, and she, paralyzed by her own terror, was powerless to help – to warn them – to stop it.

None of them seemed to sense its approach until it was upon them. They screamed, but they, like Mary, seemed unable to move. It lowered its still-hooded head slowly to each of theirs, and when it pulled back, when it moved out of the way again, and she could see, they stared, blank-eyed – souls gone, she was sure.

She could move again, just enough to stand, backing away, to turn, to try to run: enough to see Remus’ soulless stare from behind her, and Catherine’s, and the Grangers’, standing perfectly still, zombie-like, minds gone.

She shrieked, whirled around in a panic (not a single thought for the reality of the situation – or lack thereof – in her head), and when she did, she found that the dementor was right in front of her.

She couldn’t fight it off. Unnaturally strong, dead-looking hands, clammy and awful, gripped her head, ignoring her fingers scrabbling at its own, turning her face upward to meet its own – a sucking maw surrounded by swirling blackness.

That swirling blackness took her over, and she knew no more.

She woke in her cupboard, curled up on her now-cramped pallet, too cold and hungry to keep sleeping, even though she was exhausted, and wanted more than anything to slide back into the dream she had been having. She wanted to cry for the half-remembered life that seemed to have been snatched right out of her grasp. It had been such a good dream, right up to the end, with the soul-eating monster, but now she was awake, and she knew there was no such thing as magic. Her parents were not magical, any more than she was. The details were fading away, now, but she knew she had no other family, no friends – there was nothing special about weird little Mary Potter.

She still lived in a cupboard under the stairs. She was still small and skinny for her age, bullied and unpopular. She still wore glasses and was the bottom of her class, and spent every moment she could out of the house, because even though Dudley was off to Smeltings and not around to bugger it up, Aunt Petunia still, somehow, managed to come up with an endless list of chores for her to do every day.

She had thought that life might get better when she started at Stonewall, but after two years and a bit, they were just as bad as ever. Worse, maybe, because the guidance counselor wouldn’t leave her alone at school, and the other girls in her year seemed to somehow have decided that she was the scum of the earth, and were determined to make her realize it, too. (Not that she hadn’t got the message from the Dursleys loud and clear years before, but she was having a harder and harder time pretending that she didn’t secretly believe them.)

None of the teachers had cared, when she started skipping classes – leaving before the last one, and then at lunch, and then not bothering to go in at all, one day a week or more. She just… didn’t see the point. She had spent the last three days wandering around town, moving on whenever anyone seemed to take notice of the fact that she was thirteen and it was a weekday, and shouldn’t she be in school?

The same thought plagued her as she went through her day on autopilot, getting on the bus to school, and then turning around and walking away from it as soon as she arrived, only to go sit in the library, or the freezing park, killing time to no end. It wasn’t as though she had anything to look forward to. The life she lived – this horrible day-to-day existence – paled in comparison to even the few details she could recall from her dream – a castle, friends, _magic_ – she had been a witch, and she hadn’t lived with the Dursleys!

It _was_ just a dream, though.

It wasn’t real.

There was no such thing as magic.

She was worthless, friendless trash – an ugly, skinny freak of a girl, hated by everyone, even herself.

She was so _tired_.

She dragged herself through her day, wishing she could just give up – just lie down somewhere and sleep forever, but when she finally finished with her chores, so very late, when she finally crawled onto her pallet, she couldn’t. Sleep eluded her completely.

For the first time she could remember in… well, she didn’t know how many months – she was angry. Mostly at herself.

All she wanted was to sleep – to have that one chance to see the other world again – to be the person she had imagined she was…

She crept out of the cupboard and into the bathroom, returning to her bed with Aunt Petunia’s sleeping pills and a glass of water.

The first one did nothing to ease her insomnia. Nor did the second. To her frustrated, sleep-deprived self, it made sense, then, to down all the remaining tablets, thinking as she did so: _what’s the worst that could happen? I did want to sleep forever…_

Finally, her mind slowed, consciousness fading, but not to the comfortable, comforting darkness of sleep.

It was cold, she realized, from a sort of timeless haze.

Wet.

She couldn’t breathe – she needed air!

There was a light somewhere above her.

She clawed her way toward it, awkwardly, painfully, never seeming to get any closer. Her lungs _burned_ with the need to inhale, to refresh themselves.

She held it off as long as she could, but she was still so far from what she thought – hoped – was the surface when she couldn’t any longer, when the last bubbles escaped from her nose and water rushed in to take their place, burning cold, stabbing at her lungs, like nothing she had ever felt before.

She felt her will to reach the light fading, her limbs growing heavier as the water weighed her down from the inside, breath gone, sinking down and down to the crushing depths as her vision failed. Even the terror she felt at the unknown lurking on the other side of death could not spur her to save herself.

_[WAKE UP!]_

The order jolted through her unconscious mind, startling her to alertness as effectively as any _ennervate_.

“Hu-wha?” she said intelligently.

_< :You were too hasty, my queen,:>_ Tom Riddle hissed, speaking to the enormous serpent coiled around her, the one which had, she realized, nearly just crushed her to death.

_< :She is a traitor to the blood of Slytherin! She is not worthy of the name! She deserves to die!:>_ the basilisk protested.

_< :She is mine, my queen – as much as you are mine. She will be brought around to my way of thinking in the end.:>_ He smiled sharply at Mary. _< :Won’t you, my heir?:>_ he asked, before turning back to the snake. _< :She has already begun to follow in my footsteps, after all…:>_

_< :I haven’t! I would never!:>_

_< :Cadmus Thorpe?:>_ Riddle grinned. _< :Veritaserum? Taking what you want – what you need – always an admirable quality. And the allies you have already begun to draw around yourself? The houses of Urquhart and Granger, your professors McGonagall, Lupin, and Snape? Powerful, devoted, loyal ‘friends’ – even Moon, Lovegood, and Weasley have their uses.:>_

_< :I am nothing like you! I don’t hate muggleborns! I don’t want to hurt anyone!:>_

_< :Silly child – whoever said I hated muggleborns? They were convenient, like the Jews… And as for hurting people, well… what about Sirius Black?:>_

Anger flared within her, and he grinned again, _knowingly_. _< :That’s different!:>_ she objected

_< :Is it? Are you sure?:>_ Her doubt must have shown on her face, because he laughed, a high, cruel sound. _< :Face it, granddaughter – you and I – we share more than the blood you would deny.:>_

_< :I should have thrown your book in the lake!:>_ she scowled, fighting against the fear that she was, in fact, like him in any way that mattered.

_< :Ah, but you didn’t.:>_ he chuckled, then turned on his heel. _< :Come, my queen,:>_ he ordered the snake, striding toward one of the empty portraits on the walls. _< :Granddaughter,:>_ he threw over his shoulder, _< :When you are ready to seize the power that is yours by right, I’ll be waiting.:>_

He vanished, then, effectively giving himself the last word, and Mary realized that she was back – or still – in the Tempering Chamber, surrounded by blank canvases, lying on the stone floor, gasping and panting for breath. She was alone again – still? – There had been others, hadn’t there, with the dementor? (It was all muddled, like a swiftly fading nightmare.) But she was not alone for long, because more figures were forming on the walls – faces this time: her friends, looking down on her with scorn.

Lilian was directly in front of her, now, in the frame through which Tom Riddle had left, sneering at her. “You know I’ve just been using you. Why would I truly want to be _your_ friend?”

Mary felt the rejection hit her like a physical blow. She turned away, only to come face-to-face with Emma Granger: “You’ve been putting our daughter in danger – it’s _your_ fault. You’re a bad influence, and we won’t have you around!”

On the other side of the circle, Remus was speaking almost too quietly to hear: “You’re _not them_ – the more you remind me of them, the more I’m going to want my _real_ friends back – James and Lily, Peter and Sirius… _You_ took them all away from me – you and your bloody _prophecy_ – ‘Chosen One’… You ruined my life, Mary.”

Neville glowered from his sketch: “I can’t look at you without seeing my parents’ torturer. Just… Just leave me alone, okay?”

Hermione was nearly crying: “They like you better than they like me; I hate you! I never should have asked you to come home with me!”

Catherine had a look of pure disdain: “You won’t even put in the barest effort, so I don’t see why I should continue to waste my time with you! Good riddance!”

It was, perhaps, Snape’s portrait’s rejection that hurt the most, though. “I’m your Head of House,” it drawled. “It’s my _job_ to babysit your tedious self. You didn’t think I truly _cared_ did you? If you had never been born, Lily never would have died, and I will _never_ forgive you for that. Winning your trust and repeatedly dashing it to pieces is simply the most effective torture I can conceive for you without causing lasting physical damage.”

And Mary finally understood – truly and deeply _comprehended_ – what Remus had meant when he said that one’s fears grew worse the more one dwelled upon them. She could not imagine anything worse than this – than the voices of everyone she trusted and cared about, raining words of rejection down on her, speaking the secret fears that she _knew_ were false. Alone, they were little more than dark murmurs at the back of her mind, but here, together, in the open…

She shuddered, turning from one face to the next, trying not to hear them, trying not to _believe_ them, until finally, _finally_ , she could not take it any longer.

“I don’t need your protection,” Dave’s face scowled. “Did you even think how patronizing it sounded to offer? Why would I want to be associated with _the Girl Who Lived_?”

“ _Enough_!” she shouted, loudly enough that the sketches on the walls actually _stopped_. “No more – no more!” Her face was wet, and she didn’t know when she had started crying, but clearly she had, because she sniffled as she tried to say, “It’s not true! I won’t believe it! I won’t!”

The angry, scornful, hate-filled faces of her friends unraveled into their component lines before coming together again in the image of a bearded man with hard eyes and long, curly hair. He had a long, twisted scar across one cheek, and looked rather fierce, but he grinned at her with a genuine (albeit somewhat evaluating) sort of expression and nodded firmly.

And then the Tempering Chamber was gone, and she was lying in the clearing in the Senior Woods after her very first Samhain ritual, holding hands with Hermione and Lilian, and she _remembered._

She remembered magic, taking her over, moving her, tying her to long-dead spirits for an instant – contact across time and space, moving in concert with a hundred or more other students, dancing together, connected to one another and the universe in a way that was, she felt, truly indescribable.

She remembered her certainty that Hermione and Lilian, who had, somehow, found her in the midst of the magic, would always find her – that they would always stand by her side; knowing that they _all_ knew this – that they shared that same certainty.

She remembered feeling, for the first time _ever,_ that she actually _belonged_ somewhere, and knew, in the same incontrovertible way that she _knew_ water was wet and the sun was hot, that she would always have a place at Hogwarts: magic would never desert her, and it wasn’t a dream – she did truly belong here, with these people, in this place, and they thought so, too.

If there was an equivalent of bruise-balm for a fear-wracked psyche, that might have been it, Mary reflected.

By the time the memory faded away, leaving her in the Tempering Chamber once more, her racing heart had slowed, and though she still felt terrible about the awful things she had done over the course of her life, which the Chamber had seen fit to force her to re-live, she was able to look at her friends without feeling undue guilt for her inability to save them from the Dementor, or mistrust for the words their portraits had spat at her.

She was the last to come to, lying in an uncomfortable heap on the floor. All the others were shifting restlessly or whispering in ones and twos, not unlike their reaction to Mabon, their body language screaming of fear and discomfort as they tried not to look at each other in the rather small room.

Luna, of course, was the exception. She met their eyes one at a time, then smiled. “We’re done, Desmond,” she announced brightly.

The same shifting sensation spread throughout the room again as it spun, and a section of the wall vanished to become an open doorway, light flooding in. The students rushed toward it without a word, spilling out (rather unceremoniously) into the cold, fresh air of one of the lesser courtyards.

They peered at their surroundings and each other for a long moment, trying to get their bearings, still obviously disinclined to speak. Mary, personally, thought that it felt like the mother of all awkward moments, not knowing if or how she had featured in whatever nightmares they had seen. She suspected that she had to have been in at least some of them, as they had featured so prominently in her own.

It was Draco who broke the silence, if not the tension, visibly pulling himself back into the mold of the pureblood prince he normally inhabited, straightening his hair and his robes. He snorted derisively at the others and said, “Well, if that’s your idea of a good time, I think I’ll count myself out from now on, Moon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve… well, quite frankly I’d rather do _anything_ than spend another moment in the company of any of you lot, so.”

He stalked toward the nearest door without another word, hands shoved deeply into his pockets. Mary wondered what he had seen, and whether they were shaking as badly as hers or whether he was just cold – which, now that she thought on it, she rather was, too. By general consensus, the others followed Malfoy: Hermione, Lilian, and Aerin uncharacteristically silent, and each keeping their distance from the others; Blaise holding Daphne close, her arm wrapped reciprocally around his waist; Dave and Alex trailing behind and whispering to each other so quietly that even Mary, only feet away, couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. She didn’t try. It seemed rude.

The Weasley twins kept shooting obviously worried glances back at their sister, who was, perhaps, acting the most normal out of all of them. She and Neville were arm-in-arm with Luna. The male Gryffindor looked utterly morose, but Ginny was determinedly making conversation with her year mate (or at least attempting to do so – Luna wasn’t the best conversationalist at the best of times): “Who is Desmond, Lune?”

“The Tempering Room, of course,” the Ravenclaw answered absently. “I met it last year, and it told me it didn’t have a name. I think Desmond suits, though, don’t you?”

“I… erm… I suppose?”

Mary left them to it: after escaping the emotional whiplash that was her experience with the – _Desmond_ , she was suddenly feeling rather exhausted (not that she thought she would actually be able to sleep, with those images and memories still so close to the surface of her mind). No one even looked surprised when she excused herself to have a lie-down, and she had a suspicion that most of the group would soon follow her lead.


	32. Different Kinds of Strength

###  Friday, 4 March 1994

#### Mary Potter’s Dormitory

**_~~Dear Madam Urquhart~~ _ ~~~~**

_No. Too informal._

**_~~To the most esteemed Madam Urquhart~~ _ **

_Too formal. Maybe start with someone less… intimidating?_

**_~~Dear Aunt Minnie~~ _ **

_Too… no. Just no._

Mary frowned as she crossed out the latest salutation. It had been nearly a week since she and ten of her closest friends (and the Twins, and Draco) had braved Gryffindor’s Tempering Chamber, and she still could not shake the memories and images and feelings it had presented her with in the first half of the… test, or whatever it was supposed to be.

When she had returned to her room immediately afterward, she had expected that it would be the monotonous horror of life without magic and the apathy that had led to her to suicide, or Tom Riddle insisting that she was, in fact, just like him, that would haunt her nightmares, but instead it had been the pain and trouble she had given others over the past few years, intentional or not.

And it hadn’t stopped.

She didn’t know if it was something about the Chamber, or something about her, but she couldn’t stop thinking of the worry she had caused Remus, Snape, and Aunt Minnie over the course of the year with her altogether too-frequent visits to the Hospital Wing; the way she had scared Draco and Hagrid and Chelsea Miller and Colin Creevey by speaking Parsel around them; the Grangers’ horror at the dangers she had dragged Hermione into; and the fear and helplessness of Cadmus Thorpe and the victims of the Veritaserum Conspiracy. Even the embarrassment she had caused Draco, Ron Weasley, and Aunt Petunia over the years had made an appearance.

If anything, the whole adventure with the Chamber had been worse than useless, because she hadn’t been able to concentrate well enough to even produce the non-corporeal Patronus. She didn’t even think it was the boggart-dementor forcing her to remember the all-too-real suffering she had caused – it was simply her own guilt eating away at her, now that she was aware of it all.

She had to do _something_ – all attempts at casting the Patronus aside, she didn’t think she could live with the horrible gnawing feeling that manifested in the pit of her stomach every time she saw one of the people she had wronged in passing (which happened relatively often, as three of them _were_ professors), or closed her eyes and remembered telling the Room that she would apologize and take responsibility for her actions.

She couldn’t apologize to Thorpe or everyone they had dosed with Veritaserum – not without getting other people in trouble, too – and she _wouldn’t_ apologize for embarrassing the likes of Weasley or any of the Dursleys – she firmly believed that they had deserved everything they got (or in Weasley’s case, that he had earned it since, with the way he had spent years trying to pick fights with her and Lilian because of his petty feud with Draco and the fact that they shared a house with him) –  but she had hoped that she could at _least_ get some forgiveness for the things she _could_ admit to having done and felt truly bad about.

(She hoped that getting forgiveness would make her feel less awful about… _everything_.)

She had decided to start with the incident she felt was most thoroughly actually her fault: the Big Mistake from over the summer. It was turning out to be much more difficult than she had expected to even get started, though.

_Aunt Minnie is still too intimidating. I need to figure out what I want to say, first, and then I’ll make a nicer copy for her and Madam Urquhart_ , she decided firmly.

**_Dear Catherine,_ **

**_~~It has recently been brought to my attention~~ _ **

_Too formal._

**_~~I’m sorry I~~ _ **

_Too abrupt._

**_~~I only just realized~~ _ **

_Still too abrupt._

**_~~I know it has been months, but~~ _ **

_Maybe more of a lead-in?_

**_How are you? I have been well, for the most part, though several days ago, I had a rather ~~awful~~ _ ** _(no) **~~startling~~ ** (no) **~~miserable~~ ** (no) **unusual experience. Have you heard of a room at Hogwarts called the Tempering Chamber, or perhaps the Room of Doom? Its major function seems to be to force you to face the ~~worst~~ ** (no) **~~least-Gryffindor~~ ** (no, it was better before, blast it!) **worst sides of your personality, and your worst fears.**_

**_~~I didn’t realize before~~ _ **

_(no) ~~~~_

**_One of the things the Chamber does is makes you experience the wrongs you have done to others. ~~For example, I am now very aware of how my actions in accidentally~~_ ** _(no) ** ~~unintentionally~~** (no – too… I have to take responsibility – that’s the whole point!)_

_(Bugger this for a lark.)_

**_For example, I am now very aware of how my actions in leaving the Manor wards last summer made you worry about me and my safety._ **

**_I am very sorry._ **

**_I did not think about what I was doing at the time, and I clearly haven’t given it much thought since, because I didn’t realize until the Chamber (forcefully) pointed it out exactly how much trouble and distress I caused you. So I am sorry for that as well – the not even properly apologizing until now part._ **

**_It was not my intention to worry you or scare you. I will do my best to not act so thoughtlessly in the future, and remember that my actions and choices effect other people whom I care about, including you. I sincerely regret not doing so over the summer._ **

**_So in conclusion, I am sorry that I scared you and worried you, even though it was not intentional – please believe I would never intentionally worry you. You are ~~one of my favorite adults~~ _ ** _(no) **~~very important to me~~  **(no) **not just my tutor and most trusted advisor on all things Magical Britain: I see you as an older cousin as much as Aunt Minnie is an aunt, and I truly hope you will forgive my rash and thoughtless actions and the distress I caused you over the summer.**_

**_Your contrite student,_ **

**_Mary Elizabeth_ **

Mary sighed, re-reading the letter. Apologizing was… much more difficult, really, than she thought it had any right to be.

Still, this would serve, she thought, for Catherine (once she made a clean copy, without all the cross-outs) and something like the last paragraph might do for the Professor as well, but she had a sneaking suspicion that there was a proper way to do this, and Madam Urquhart would be more offended if she missed the mark than by the lack of an apology in the first place.

She should probably go find an etiquette book on the subject before she wrote to the older witches, she decided.

Yes, that seemed like an _excellent_ way to put it off a bit longer, while still feeling like she was making some sort of progress on the bloody things.

###  Saturday, 12 March 1994

#### Old Dueling Arena

##### Neville

Goblin-forged, enchanted blades bounced off each other with a resounding _clang_.

Neville disengaged, circling his older, taller, heavier opponent warily. He had never spoken to the sixth-year Hufflepuff before, but he had shown up to the extended practice session with a rapier, willing to go a few rounds, and Neville had jumped at the chance. It had been ages since he had done any proper fencing, and to be honest, he could use the respite from constantly thinking about – things he wasn’t thinking about, because he had to _duck_ and _parry_ and _there! An opening!_

He was panting hard when they finally called it quits, and covered with welts from coming into contact with the spelled edges of Jones’ sword – third blood was too dangerous for practice against a stranger, but the beauty of magic was that proper swords could be spelled to transfer a jinx or hex on contact rather than to rend flesh, tracking ‘wounds’ without causing potentially permanent damage.

He had lost, obviously, though that wasn’t really surprising. The older boy was in much better shape, as well as having a longer reach and probably more experience. He still bowed afterward, as though Neville had been a worthy opponent, and offered to practice with him again the following weekend.

Neville probably would take him up on that. They had only been going for half an hour or so, and his arms and legs were trembling from the exertion. His fencing master was going to kill him come summer.

Worse than that terrifying prospect, though, now that his attention was no longer consumed by the fight, his thoughts were already straying back to his time in the Room of Doom. As he had gathered from talking to Ginny about it, it had started off showing them their worst qualities. She had seen herself being too craven to tell anyone about the book that had been influencing her to open the Chamber the year before when she briefly got free of it, among other things.

He had seen himself bowing before his Grandmother’s scathing tongue and begging for even the slightest hint of approval from Uncle Algie – approval which he was starting to suspect would never come. He had seen himself not standing up against Malfoy’s bullying, when he knew – _knew_ – that the pointy little bastard would back off if he could defend himself with a witty retort, without stuttering, or hex him without flubbing the wand movements. If he could get the blond twerp on the other end of a sword, Neville was willing to bet he’d never bother him again. And he’d seen himself just… going along with Ron, letting him take the lead in their friendship, being a follower, when all his life, he’d been told that he needed to be a _leader_ – apparently there was a prophecy, or something.

He’d felt his Gran’s genuine disappointment that he didn’t measure up to his father or his Gramps (who had died before he was born) every time he could have worked harder to improve his Transfiguration or Potions or flying or even swordsmanship over summers, but chose to spend time on Herbology or reading history and literature. He’d felt her misgivings from the one and only occasion on which he had invited Ron over to the house, and her worries as she watched him lurk at the very edges of social gatherings over the years, uncomfortable surrounded by people he didn’t know.

The feelings and memories he had been forced to witness made it clear that Neville reminded his Gran of his mother, though she had never said so aloud. He _knew_ she had hated his mother, up until his parents had lost their minds to the Lestranges. According to Uncle Algie, his Perfect Nephew had eloped with the girl he knew would never get his mother’s approval. It was during the war, and he was her Mentor in the Aurors. Uncle Algie made it sound like she was pregnant, but from the few things Gran had said, he thought there was more to it than that, and the dates didn’t line up, anyway. He’d found a very formal (and therefore vague) letter of explanation from Sirius Black a few years back that seemed to imply Lily Potter – Evans, then – was involved somehow, and that it was mostly Black’s fault that Neville’s parents had ended up Bonded (well before the date of their actual marriage), without giving away any of the circumstances. Neville’s best guess was that an Auror mission had gone wrong – Black used to be an Auror, too – and Lily Potter, who had been a healer, had tried to fix it, but hadn’t been able to, or maybe had even done the Bonding to save one of their lives. There were healing spells like that. They were almost all illegal, but if it had saved them, he wasn’t complaining.

He knew his mother had to have been just as brave as his father, since she had been an auror, too, and that they had to have loved each other very much, if they were Bonded to save each other’s lives. She was strong and fierce, too, trying to protect him from ‘Bellatrix Lestrange’ at Christmas as she had. She had been a Hufflepuff, not a Gryffindor, but even if it did disappoint his Gran, Neville was secretly just as pleased to realize he was like her as he would be to be like his father.

So all of that had been unpleasant, but… not a surprise. He _knew_ that he wasn’t really bold or brave like most Gryffindors. The Hat put him there because, in its words, “There is a spark of potential in you, and it would be a shame to waste it. Hufflepuff would support you, but it would also allow you to fade into the background, as you are so clearly inclined to do. Gryffindor, on the other hand… Well, they do say that expectations can be the making of a wizard. So if you’re sure, I suppose it had better be GRYFFINDOR!”

It hadn’t hurt that he had argued for the House of the Lions – maybe the bravest thing he had ever done, to that point in his life. The Hat had been considering Hufflepuff, or even Slytherin, and he had wanted so badly to live up to the image he had of his father – not the shrunken wizard in the hospital bed, but the strong and noble Gryffindor from his Gran’s stories…

But still, he was not unaware of his own personality. He _knew_ that his first instinct in a new situation was to follow someone else’s lead – he simply didn’t know enough about most of the world to feel confident taking the lead himself. And he knew exactly how his family felt about him – it wasn’t at all as though they kept their opinions to themselves. He wanted to please them – he couldn’t let down the House, after all – but he didn’t think it was so wrong to be quietly brave and protective like his mother, rather than bold and brash like his father and most every other Gryffindor he knew. So he had gotten through that part of the Tempering alright.

But then it had moved on to his fears, and those were… those were worse. Much worse.

It had started out like his boggart, with Snape sneering down at him, just waiting for him to mess up and hurt himself or others badly, permanently. He never did anything to help, but just waited to make Neville feel worse afterward, and tried to turn the whole class against him, setting them essays about what he did wrong – but just as his cauldron exploded (as it did more often than not, even with Mary keeping an eye on him, now), his fellow Gryffindors screaming and dying horribly from the evil concoction therein, the scene had changed.

He had been rejected by Ginny and Luna, then by Mary, Lilian and Hermione – so similar to the way Ron and the rest of the House had treated him in the wake of his cock-up with the passwords – the disdain he had always half-suspected they held for him (finally) shining through as they told him to fuck off and never speak to them again.

He had been disowned – Uncle Algie argued before Gran and the Representatives of the Client Houses that he was unsuited to lead the House of Longbottom, and all of them unanimously agreed that he was unworthy of representing them, taking away his position as Heir and allowing Uncle Algie to exile him from the Family – Neville _Apsidus_ – cut off. Some of them had looked on him with pity as they did it, but they had all consented, and so he was chucked out, just as he would have been had he been a squib.

He had lain on his deathbed, a hundred and fifty years old, attended by a single house elf, with no wife or children by his side, _knowing_ that the House of Longbottom (older than any other British House except Black and Bones) was dying with him, that he had let down all those who had come before him by not carrying on the line.

And then… He had been tortured, like his parents – or at least how he imagined his parents had been tortured: a Death Eater, robed and masked, held him under a spell of unimaginable pain, twisting and shaking and screaming until he could no longer do anything but blink and drool, mad cackling echoing in his ears as he watched himself consigned to a bed beside his parents, trapped in his own head and unable to communicate, unable to fully comprehend the world around him anymore.

His mind shut down at the horror of that experience, his only thought rejection of it. If he could have done, he would have run, screaming. It seemed to drag on, slower and slower, until finally it felt like he just passed out – as though he was stunned, or something, but instead of blackness, he opened his eyes to see a sketch-portrait of Godric Gryffindor frowning and shaking its head at him, and then he opened his eyes _again_ to find himself collapsed on the floor of the round chamber with all of the others (though only Luna and a very troubled-looking Hermione were conscious), watching by the poor light of the portraits as they twitched and mumbled, dreaming their own nightmares.

He had _failed_.

He was no stranger to failure in the general sense, but this… it seemed more important than failing a Potions lab or a Transfiguration essay. More like being disowned than being rejected by his fellow Gryffindors. As though he had been tested as a _person_ and found wanting.

And he didn’t know what to do about it.

He could hardly even think of the last scene – that final fear (or maybe there would have been others, if he had gotten past that one, but the last one he had managed to face, anyway) – without his hands shaking and breaking out in a cold sweat.

Like he was now.

_Fuck!_

He looked around nervously, to see whether anyone had noticed, and…

“Neville? Are you alright?”

“Gah!” he jumped, head whipping around to see a very concerned Hermione hovering over him. When had she got there? “What – no – I’m fine!”

The Ravenclaw gave him a terribly skeptical look, curls escaping from her braid to form a frizzy halo around her exertion-flushed face. “What are you thinking about?” she asked, plopping herself down beside him. “Because you look awfully pale and, well… upset.”

“I-it’s really none of your business,” he said, as firmly as he could, which wasn’t very. But he wasn’t about to talk about it, and especially not here, where anyone might hear. He had more pride than _that_ , even if it wasn’t much.

She looked offended. “I know that! It’s just, well… you looked like you could use someone to talk to, that’s all.”

He shook his head, and tried desperately to change the subject. “Why aren’t you cheering Mary and Lilian?”

The Slytherins had begun attending the weekend practice sessions only a few weeks prior, and were currently in a doubles match on the other side of the arena, flinging hexes at Ron and Ernie.

Hermione shrugged. “I was on my way out. Homework. Want to walk up with me?”

Neville sighed. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind to continue dueling, and it would be churlish to refuse when he didn’t have a reason to stay. “Alright. Lead on.”

He trailed her out of the arena (most improperly, but then, the nice thing about Hermione was that she neither knew nor cared about Society and its rules). She did slow down once they reached the corridor, though, so that they could indeed walk together.

After several minutes’ somewhat-awkward silence, she asked abruptly, “Neville, do you think I’m… abrasive? Or… I dunno. Rude?”

He hesitated. What kind of question was _that_?! “I – erm… you are very, um… outspoken… at times. Why – ah – why do you ask?”

She frowned at her shoes. “It was… it was one of the things that the Chamber showed me – you know, the Tempering Room. I – well… I didn’t really believe it. I didn’t – I’ve talked about it with Lizzie and Lili, and they said you had to accept your flaws, or rather, acknowledge them and at least see why you should think about changing them, to move on and well… I couldn’t.”

“What were they?” he asked, too curious to think about his own rudeness in asking.

She blushed, but she did answer. “Being well… tactless. And always thinking I’m in the right. And um… not really taking others’ thoughts and feelings into account. Being… I suppose if you want to say a bit _ruthless_ when I’m after information… Selfish. Ah. Amoral. A bit. Possibly.”

She was so red, he couldn’t help but smile slightly. Still, he was compelled to say, “It’s okay. I didn’t make it all the way through, either. Couldn’t face my fears…”

“Is that what you were thinking about earlier?”

He nodded reluctantly. “Guess I’m not cut out to be a Gryffindor, really.”

She stopped dead in the hallway and turned to glare at him. “Don’t be daft – of _course_ you’re meant for Gryffindor!”

“I got stuck on the, well… it made me go mad, like my parents. I just couldn’t… couldn’t face that.”

“Well _that_ sounds like a perfectly reasonable thing to be afraid of!” she snapped indignantly. “It doesn’t mean you’re not – not _brave_ or _noble_ or whatever, to be afraid of being cursed out of your mind!” He winced, and she seemed to realize what she had just said. “Ah! Sorry – I mean – just… sorry. Maybe I am a tactless, thoughtless, social incompetent. I didn’t mean… um.”

He shook his head slowly. “Just um… stop digging?”

“What?”

“Is that not a muggle phrase? When you’re in a hole, stop digging? Dean says it all the time…”

“Oh – yes. Yes, it is. Okay. Um. My, um… my condolences, about your parents, though, really.”

“Thank you.”

The awkward silence settled in again, except this time they weren’t even moving. It lasted only a few seconds before she said, “Maybe I am a nosey know-it-all, and you’re right that it’s none of my business, but you probably really should talk to someone, even if it’s not me. I mean, it’s probably better if it’s not me, given that, well, I’m not a psychologist, and we’ve just established I’m an insensitive twit – but I think it sounds like the Chamber put you through some pretty traumatic events, and… it might do you good to talk about them.”

He started walking toward Ravenclaw Tower again without answering, simply because he didn’t know what to say.

“Neville, I’m serious,” she added, following him. “It can’t be good for you to have been, what, put under the cruciatus? Even if it was only in your head? Not to mention whatever else… not that you have to tell me. Just… someone.”

“Like whom?” he asked finally. “It’s not like I can talk to my Gran about it, or… I dunno? Professor McGonagall? She’s way too busy, and anyway…”

“Awfully intimidating, I know. Madam Pomfrey?”

He shook his head. Every time he had been to the Hospital Wing – and with Potions, he was willing to bet it was more than any other student in their year – she had seemed more and more exasperated with having to see him. Not that she didn’t do her job, he just… had the impression that she didn’t like him much.

“Snape?”

At that _he_ stopped dead in his tracks. “Why in the nine _hells_ would I want to talk to _Snape_ about _anything_? He _hates_ me! He’s part of the bloody problem! Didn’t you hear about my boggart?” _Everyone_ had heard about his boggart. Snape had _not_ been pleased, _especially_ about the dress.

She gave him a terribly condescending look. “ _My_ first boggart was Professor McGonagall telling me I was being expelled. Failure. I don’t believe that _Snape himself_ is the thing you fear most. If he is, then you’re ridiculous to be worrying about whether you can face your fears, seeing as you _do_ go to class with him every week.”

He flushed. “Incompetence. It’s the way he makes me feel like a hopeless idiot all the bloody time. But that still doesn’t mean I’d – Besides it’s not like he’d listen!”

“Of course he would!” She hooked her arm through his, and turned them ‘round, headed for the dungeons. “He does for the Snakes.”

“Hermione! Granger! What are you doing? I’m not a Snake!”

“But you _are_ a student – and the Tempering Chamber was his idea in the first place. He’ll help, you’ll see. Come on.”

He dragged his feet, but he went.

It was several staircases before he managed to come up with another solid point of contention. “It’s not even his office hours! Hermione!”

“It’s fine. He practically lives in his office.”

“But he won’t be inclined to help if we interrupt whatever he’s doing. Look, the door’s closed, we should just – I’ll come back la–” He cut himself off with a slight yelp as she walked straight up to the Potions Master’s door and knocked twice. “ _Hermione_! You can’t _do_ that!”

She ignored him, and the door opened by magic a half-second later. “Come in,” the horribly familiar voice ordered.

“ _Hermione_! This is like _suicide_!”

“Oh, stop being so overly dramatic,” she answered, dragging him into the room.

“What is it, Miss Granger?” the professor drawled, without even looking up from the papers he was marking.

“Good afternoon, sir. Neville needs to talk to someone about what he saw in the Tempering Chamber.”

At that, Snape finally looked up, assessing the situation before him with one cold sweep of his dark, merciless eyes. Thankfully they settled on Hermione, rather than him. “Does he indeed? And why are you _here_?”

The Ravenclaw _finally_ let go of Neville’s arm, so that she could cross her own and glare at the professor. “We both know you’re the closest this school has to a proper councilor. And _you_ were the one who told us to go there in the first place.”

“ _No_ ,” he corrected her with what Neville thought might be a genuine expression of amusement. “I suggested that Mary Elizabeth go there in search of a memory to shape her Patronus. I said _nothing_ of either of _you_. Had you asked beforehand, I would have told you that it was a waste of time for the pair of you, because you would not be able to accept your flaws, and Longbottom his fears.” Neville felt his face fall into a questioning expression, even as Hermione stiffened beside him. “Ah, correct on both counts, I see. Be glad you were able to choose to leave – if you remain too long, it will draw you under again and continue to attempt to force you through the process, regardless of the degree of mental trauma induced along the way. I can tell you from experience that it becomes highly unpleasant after the third iteration. I ask you _again_ Miss Granger: Why have you dragged an obviously unwilling Longbottom into my office? Or had you not realized that he would clearly prefer to be at the bottom of the Black Lake, rather than here?”

The Ravenclaw turned to him, and he gave her a rather sheepish nod. Not the Black Lake, maybe, but honestly, just about anywhere else in the castle _would_ be better. She rolled her eyes at him.

“ _Because_ , sir, if I’d let him put it off, he wouldn’t have done _anything_ about it. And it’s _clearly_ bothering him!”

“I daresay you are aware that Mr. Longbottom’s troubled thoughts are none of your concern? Need I call you a meddling, self-righteous busy-body, or has the suspiciously silent potions-disaster on legs already managed to inform you of your new promotion over insufferable know-it-all?”

Hermione blushed badly, but she still managed to respond with a stubborn pout. “Not in so many words, sir. And it _is_ my concern, because Neville is my _friend_ and I’m _worried_ about him.”

At that, Snape, surprisingly, relented. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and throwing his quill on the desk. He looked from Hermione to Neville, and said, “I can’t help you.”

It was the first thing he had said directly to Neville since the two students had entered the office. Irritating as it probably ought to be to be talked about as though he wasn’t there, honestly the less Neville had to do with Snape, the better. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in a sigh of relief. “Um… okay… Thank you, sir – ah… we’ll just be go-”

“You would if he was a Slytherin!” Hermione protested, cutting off his retreat.

“But he’s _not_ a Slytherin,” Snape quickly rebutted her. “The Slytherins _trust_ me. Longbottom here is just waiting for the opportune moment to _flee_. I am quite certain that it will do him no good at all to have his most hated professor prying into his deepest insecurities and fears.”

“Well what do you suggest he do, then? Because not doing anything won’t do anything!”

“’ _Not doing anything won’t do anything_ ’? You’ve reached new extremes of eloquence, Miss Granger. Still, Longbottom,” he hesitated, clearly thinking, then continued: “I suppose, if you actually do wish to talk to someone about what you saw in the Chamber and are not simply humoring Miss Granger… you could do worse than Lupin. Sprout is also an option, though she doesn’t have quite the same… range of life experiences. Satisfied?” he added sarcastically, directing the last word toward the Ravenclaw, whom Neville noted was now beaming.

“Yes, sir. Thank you. Oh! And if you’ve not gotten to my essay yet, I found another reference: Belby’s 1971 monograph on the uses of knotgrass?”

Snape glared at her. “Get out. It’s _not_ office hours, your essay is already graded, and the Belby article is only tangentially related, anyway! I swear by the Morrigan, I _am_ going to start knocking points off you for gratuitous citations!”

“Yes, but –”

“No ‘but’s, just _go_ ,” he snapped.

Neville decided (in the professor’s words) that this was the opportune moment to flee, and _went._

Unfortunately he did not go quickly enough, for Hermione caught him up immediately, and he found himself being dragged through the castle again, this time toward the Defense Professor’s office. He didn’t even have the excuse that it wasn’t Professor Lupin’s office hour (because it just so happened that it was), and so he found himself shuffling awkwardly and staring at his feet as Hermione explained his problem for the second time in an hour.

In contrast to Snape, Lupin looked appalled by the situation.

“He actually _told students_ to explore the Room of Doom?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, not _us_. But Elizabeth, and Ginny, Blaise, and Theo. Word got around, and we all decided to check it out,” Hermione explained.

“I can’t believe him – after his own experience with that room, you’d think he’d, well… never mind. Neville, of course I’d be willing to talk it over with you, if you’d like.”

“Great!” Hermione exclaimed. “I’ll leave you two to it, then.” She disappeared with a grin and a little wave.

Neville sighed. “You… really don’t have to. I – I’m fine. Really.”

The professor rubbed at his eyes for a moment before running his hands through his sandy, greying hair. “Well,” he said, after a moment, “I can’t force you to talk if you don’t want to. I do realize that Hermione can be a bit… forceful.”

Neville nodded. “She… means well,” he defended her weakly.

Lupin smiled sympathetically. “Be that as it may, if you just got dragged in here, I understand. But I understand, too, what it’s like to… to be afraid. To think you don’t belong in Gryffindor Tower. I mean, it’s just a guess, but I have heard the rumors going around, and if that’s part of it… Anyway, if you _do_ want to talk, I’m more than happy to listen, and offer any advice that might come to mind.”

“You… you were a Gryffindor?” Neville asked, taking a seat hesitantly. “I would’ve guessed… Ravenclaw, maybe.”

Lupin gave him a rueful grin. “I came in with a… medical condition. The Hat thought it was brave that I wanted to make something out of my life, even though I would have to overcome more challenges than most. I gather quite a few muggleborns were sorted there for a similar reason.”

“It told me Gryffindor expectations would help me reach my full potential or something like that. I – I’m not… not bold or – or fearless, or strong, or… I never really fit in, even before the whole Sirius Black thing,” Neville admitted. It felt _good_ to say it out loud. Terrifying, but… it was a relief, he decided.

The Defense Professor scoffed. “I once heard a very wise man boil the Houses of Hogwarts down into a single word each: dedication, perseverance, curiosity, and fortitude. Gryffindor is fortitude: willingness to confront fear, pain, danger, uncertainty, and intimidation; the ability to act in a way you believe to be right, even when the whole world seems to be against you. You don’t have to be _brave_ or _fearless_ or _strong_ to be a Gryffindor. You just have to do your best to live up to your ideals.”

“The – the Chamber said I failed, though. Ginny said it was built by Gryffindor himself, and –”

“Godric Gryffindor was a hard man,” Lupin cut him off, shaking his head sharply, as though to deny any doubt. “And he lived in a harsher age. He spent most of his life before Hogwarts at war, and he had a very specific idea of what made a man _good_. If students were sorted according to his ideals, rather than the underlying principle, there would not be a single Gryffindor in the school today. The nature of the Room of Doom is to shape his students to his image, but there is a reason its use was discontinued in the 1800s – it is impossible to satisfy, and its methods are brutal. If you make what it considers sufficient ‘progress’ in conforming to its template of how a person ought to be, it shows you a happy memory, lets you go, but if you go back, it will find something else about you to… critique. Smaller flaws, lesser fears, but no one is perfect, and the Room tries to push children to a very specific idea of perfection.” He looked… haunted, Neville thought.

“H-How do you know so much about it?” he asked, after a moment.

The professor frowned. “I… looked into it. My friends and I, we found it, when we were at school. None of us made it through, by the way. Not even once, and we did all have a go. Not that we knew what it was – we thought it was some kind of nightmare torture chamber, and didn’t give any thought at all to why that sort of thing would be in a school in the first place.” He shook his head slowly, somehow appearing even older than usual. “We weren’t very good Gryffindors,” he admitted. “And not just in failing to live up to the ideal. We… we were pranksters. And we were, occasionally – often – cruel. Mostly to Severus – sorry – Professor Snape. I’d hoped we could put all that behind us, but, well… apparently not.”

And suddenly Neville was very confused. “Sorry, what? Did I, erm… miss something?”

Lupin startled, embarrassed, as though he had forgotten, momentarily, that he was speaking to a student. “No – sorry. It’s just… ancient history. Don’t worry about it. The point is, the Room is… it’s unforgiving. It’s a relic of a bygone age, and it lacks… perspective. It is as harsh in correcting a subject for, oh… unintentionally embarrassing someone you owe your respect as it is for… carelessly and selfishly putting the lives of others at risk. It forces you to face your fears head-on, and that’s not always the best way to learn to deal with them, regardless of how you came by them and how legitimate they are, or even how likely.”

“What… what if the things you’re afraid of are… what if they’re things that could actually happen? How, um… how would you deal with that?”

The Defense Professor sighed. “I suppose it depends on the fear. If we’re talking about, for example, your boggart – you said in your essay that you thought Professor Snape was a symbol of your… incompetence?”

Neville felt himself hunch slightly, but nodded, looking down. “He always… he makes me nervous! I can never do anything right when he’s watching! And he’s so _mean_ about it! He never tries to teach us, just calls me an insufferable moron or something and sends me to Madam Pomfrey. I’m afraid I’m going to _kill_ someone one of these days! And being afraid only makes me make _more_ mistakes!”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to try to justify his teaching methods,” Lupin rolled his eyes. “I was _shocked_ to find out that he had become a professor. But I do know that the reason he’s kept around despite his personality is that no one has ever died or been permanently maimed in his lessons, which is a standard no other Potions Instructor at any European school can claim, especially over ten years. I doubt you will be the one who slips past his guard and manages to break his record. But we were talking about fears…”

Neville nodded reluctantly. “I’m afraid I’ll – I’ll mess up so badly that I hurt someone, or that… that my House will decide I’m not a fit Heir, or that the House of Longbottom will end with me, or that everyone will realize that I’m just… worthless. Like he’s always saying. Snape. And they’ll turn on me, like Gryffindor, and, and –” He sniffled, and swiped at the tears he hadn’t noticed, running down his face.

“Neville… you’re – you’re not incompetent. You’re doing well above average in my class…” Lupin tried to comfort him.

He shook his head, and took a deep breath to calm himself. “That doesn’t mean I’m not afraid, though. But… but that’s not the one that got me. I… I got through that one. I… It was… you know what happened to my mum and dad? The Lestranges?”

Lupin blanched. “The Lestranges?” he repeated. “I – yeah. I know.”

Neville nodded. “It – I was afraid of – of something like – like _that_ happening to me. Of… of losing my mind, of…”

The Defense Professor looked decidedly as though he was in over his head, but he squared his shoulders and conjured a handkerchief and said, “Tell me about it – about them. I knew your mum in school, you know. Not _well,_ but we were in the same year…”

###  Sunday, 20 March 1994 (Ostara)

#### Great Hall

“It’s the Day of Turning Lightward. _Springtime._ ” Luna had insisted at breakfast. “You all should come and pay your respects, for the sake of balance. I _know_ you celebrated Mabon!”

No one had wanted to argue, especially so early in the morning, and it seemed that Mary wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stand to disappoint the second-year Ravenclaw, because Lilian, Dave and Alex, Hermione, Aerin and Lara, Ginny, and Neville had all turned up at the Gorse Courtyard to supplement the very surprised handful of students and professors who had assembled over lunch for the Light ritual. Mary gathered that they hadn’t been expected, but the celebrants gladly made room in the circle for them, surrounding the tree for which the courtyard was named.

Professor Flitwick, of all people, led the ceremony, playing what Hermione later identified as a fife, the notes calling magic into the air around them to start the ritual, and help them find the words to sing along. What _language_ they were singing in, Mary had no idea, but, rather like the Moons’ chanting at Yule, it seemed to speak directly to a part of her she hadn’t really known existed, evoking thoughts of life and rebirth and the vital energy of spring, welling forth from herself and the others and the tree and the earth to overflow the boundary of the circle and the courtyard and fill every corner of the castle with a sense of excitement and joy, briefly chasing away the aura of the Dementors.

It was… _nice_.

There was no other benefit: no sudden revelation of knowledge or mysterious appearance of Powers possessing anyone or disturbing visions in foreign mindscapes, but there was a sense of _growth_ and _doing things_ that just… made her happy to have been a part of it and energized her throughout the day. And by the time the song had concluded, the gorse was in full bloom, which was kind of amazing to watch, like a video played in fast-forward.

She could still feel the echoes of the ceremony hours later, buoying her mood and making the day seem just a little bit brighter, which was part of the reason it was so surprising to her when Hermione and Ginny managed to get into an argument after the Dueling Club broke up – and a rather serious one at that.

She didn’t know what started the fight. She had been talking to Lilian about whether it would be worth it to try dual casting – using two wands at once – and how it would affect their performance to try using each other’s wands to get the hang of it, before investing in a second, properly-matched back-up wand.

Before they got so far as actually swapping wands, however, they were interrupted by a furious red-head shouting about Hermione’s bloody mothering, and how she could hardly stand to talk to her anymore.

“I hate you, Hermione! Just leave me alone!” Ginny shouted, storming off and leaving a rather stunned hall in her wake.

Hermione, for once shocked beyond words, stared after her in blatant confusion, nearly-concealed hurt evident in the tension around her mouth and eyes.

“I… I think I’ll go to the library for a bit,” she said absently, obviously trying to excuse herself, but the Slytherins weren’t having it.

Mary didn’t know about Lilian, but she for one was determined to find out what had just happened. “I’ll come with you,” she volunteered. Lilian nodded. Hermione paid them no attention at all, striding from the hall as though in a daze.

The library had mostly cleared out by the time they arrived – it was only half an hour or so until curfew, and there were no other students to be seen. Madam Pince glared at them when they entered, and reminded them sharply of the time, but didn’t actually stop the trio from taking up their usual table in the far corner of the open study area. She continued to re-shelve books with a baleful harrumph.

It was Lilian who broke the expectant silence that settled between them, clearly mindful of the fact that they were going to be kicked out in twenty minutes or less. “Want to tell us what all that was about, Jeanie?” she asked in what Mary recognized as a deliberately neutral tone.

Hermione startled, as though she had been concentrating so hard on her thoughts that she hadn’t realized she wasn’t alone. “No, I… I don’t know. I was just trying to help her with her shield charms…”

“ _And_?” Mary prompted her friend when she trailed off.

Hermione shrugged. “And… she just… lit into me, about how she didn’t need my help, and why didn’t I just leave her alone? And I said I was just trying to help, and that made her even angrier. She… she said I didn’t know how to help her, and I said, no, it’s just the last wave, she was doing it too quickly, and she said I knew that wasn’t what she was talking about. I said I didn’t, and she said I was lying to make her feel better or something, and I should just stop trying and leave her alone. I said I had no idea what she was talking about. I tried to stay calm – all the books say you should stay calm, when you’re dealing with someone who’s been through trauma, you know – but I was so _confused_. And that’s when she started yelling that she _hated_ me, and how I should stop acting like her bloody mother – and I – I haven’t been. I just – I don’t know what’s going on! Why is she so angry at me? I’ve only ever tried to help her!”

Mary didn’t think she had ever heard Hermione sound so lost. Lilian started to make a comment to the effect that Ginny was just an emotional person, and it wasn’t Hermione’s fault, but the youngest of the trio interrupted her. She wasn’t sure that Ginny would want her to tell the Ravenclaw about their conversation on Hogsmeade Day, but she was sure that Hermione would at least _try_ not to make things worse for the traumatized Gryffindor if she understood what she was doing wrong. “You’ve been treating her like a victim,” she pointed out, in her most straightforward tone.

“But she _is_ a victim!” Hermione responded immediately. “I mean – I know – I have her memories! The things Riddle did…”

Mary shook her head. “She _was_ a victim. _Now_ she’s a survivor. She’s mad at you because you keep treating her like she’s broken and needs to be taken care of, when all she wants is space to put herself back together.”

“But that’s what I’ve been trying to _do_!” the older girl protested, in a tone of utmost frustration. “All the books say –”

The Slytherin cut her off ruthlessly. “Have you listened to what _Ginny_ has to say? Because I can _guarantee_ you she doesn’t want your… your _pity_ or your _concern_ or for you to treat her like she can’t take care of herself or needs to be protected from anything that might upset her.”

“Oh, like you’re such an expert!” Hermione scoffed, with a glare for doubting the expertise of written advice.

Lilian, however, had been watching Mary incisively, and cut in before Mary could respond with a single word: “Dursleys.”

Hermione blanched, and Mary glared. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It _means_ , Liz, that I’m not sure whether we’re talking about Ginny, here, or you,” Lilian answered with a challenging quirk of an eyebrow.

“ _What?_ We’re talking about Ginny! She _literally told me_ that she feels like Hermione keeps shoving her back into a victim-box, when all she wants is to move on!”

Lilian eyed her skeptically, but didn’t interrupt when Hermione asked, in a rather offended tone, when that particular conversation had occurred.

“While you were off touring Hogsmeade with the twins.” Mary still wasn’t happy about that particular friendship. “She _also_ said that you think you know everything about her, but you really don’t have any idea what she was like _before_ she met Riddle, and _that’s_ the person she wants to be, not the person whose memories you share.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do, then?” the older girl snapped, clearly angry. “Just pretend nothing happened? Do you want to see the letters she sent me over the summer? Because _I_ can tell _you_ that she was _not_ alright. Riddle left the kind of damage you don’t just _get over_ in six months or less. I mean, look at _you_! The Dursleys didn’t ever get inside your head like Riddle did to her, and you’re still getting over them, and it’s been _years_!”

“What?!”

“Pince!” Lilian hissed.

Mary looked around quickly and moderated her volume before repeating herself in a very angry whisper. “ _What the fuck, Maia?!_ Didn’t I just say this isn’t about me? And besides, I’m not saying she’s _over_ it, just that letting her pretend she is might be better _now_ than – than forcing her to think of herself _as_ a victim! _And_ even if the Dursleys _didn’t_ fuck with my head as badly as Riddle, you obviously think they did _something_ , and you’ve _never_ treated _me_ the way you treat Ginny!”

“ _You_ never tried to kill yourself!” Hermione hissed furiously, then went pink as Lilian gasped slightly and she obviously realized that that secret hadn’t really been hers to tell.

“How would you know?” Mary asked coldly. “There are a lot of things about me that I’ve never told you.” She _hadn’t_ , of course, but that wasn’t the point.

Hermione rocked back in shock, as though Mary had slapped her.

Lilian was staring at her again. “Liz, are you okay?” she asked gently.

“ _Morrigan_ , it’s like the bloody Suggestivity Solution all over again! Yes, I’m fine! And you know what? I don’t care if you don’t believe me! This isn’t about me! If you start acting like I’m a victim, I swear to all the gods and Powers, I will never speak to you again. The only reason the Dursleys matter _at all_ is I understand why Ginny maybe _wouldn’t_ want you to make her whole life about this one thing that, yes, okay, it happened and it was awful, but it’s now in the past and she _survived_ and she’s trying to move on, even if she’s not all the way over it yet!”

Both of her friends looked slightly abashed at her outburst, mumbling apologies, though Mary was certain that the look they exchanged signified a silent agreement to humor her, rather than any genuine reconsideration of her mental state. She scowled at them, unable to think of anything she could possibly say that wouldn’t make her sound as though she didst protest her victimhood too much. Then Lilian, thankfully, changed the subject back to Ginny.

“You know, it really _isn’t_ your business,” she told Hermione. “I know you helped her out a lot over the summer, but… she’s right, when she said you’re not her mother. You can’t do her healing _for_ her. And if she doesn’t want you hovering over her, well… Maybe it’s time to back off a little.”

The Ravenclaw, quite suddenly, looked shaken.

“What?” Mary asked.

“I just realized I haven’t been acting like _Ginny’s_ mother,” Hermione admitted. “I’ve been acting like _mine_ , butting in where I’m not wanted and not taking her feelings into account.”

“Maia…” Mary said hesitantly, before deciding that she really, really didn’t want to discuss Hermione’s issues with her mother tonight. For one thing, they hardly had time, and for another, she rather thought that Hermione was stubbornly in the wrong when it came to whether Emma had a right to be involved in her life.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just… there are worse people to be.”

Hermione looked as though she rather doubted this statement. “If you say so…”

Lilian snorted with half-suppressed laughter as Madam Pince approached to shoo the three of them out of the Library. “Sure there are, Jeanie. You could be _my_ mother, for instance, or _actually_ like Mrs. Weasley – she sounds like a bloody shrew.”

At that, Hermione did crack a slight smile – more of a grimace, really. “Thanks, Lilian,” she said sarcastically. “You always know exactly what to say.”

“You’re going to back off, though, right?” the brassy Slytherin confirmed gently.

The older girl nodded, taking her leave of them at the doors to make her way back up to her tower. “I will. Thanks, guys.”

“Any time,” Lilian winked, as Mary nodded stiffly, hoping that this would, truly, make things better for Ginny. They chorused good-nights before heading in opposite directions.

Once she and Lilian were well out of earshot from Hermione, however, Mary spoke again. “She could be like your mum, huh? When are you going to tell Aerin why she hates you so much?”

Lilian groaned. “I _will_ , I swear! I just have to find the right time, okay?!”

Mary gave her fellow Slytherin a raised eyebrow and her mildest, most disbelieving “Okay.” Turn-about was, after all, fair play.

“Oh, shut up! I was _worried_ about you!”

“You shut up,” the younger girl replied, sticking her tongue out at her friend.

“You, um… didn’t actually try to kill yourself, did you, when you were living with the Dursleys?” Lilian asked, her tone uncharacteristically uncertain.

“No,” Mary admitted, somewhat sheepishly. “I was just trying to make a point. There are things you don’t know about me, and you don’t get to tell me how I feel. If Maia starts treating me like Ginny instead of the other way around, I’m totally blaming you!”

“She won’t.” The older Slytherin’s confidence was back with the assurance that she hadn’t gone almost three years without realizing that her best friend had had _that_ bad of a childhood. “She hasn’t got that much tact,” she added with a grin.

Mary snorted, hoping that Lilian’s joke wasn’t a sign that she was going to completely ignore Mary’s point. She didn’t want to harp on the point, though. “Too true.”

“So do you want to try dual casting next weekend?”

“Ugh, fine. You do know the left-handed wand movements are different than the right, sometimes, right?”

“What? Seriously? _Why_?”

“I dunno. They just are. Guess you have all week to practice, though,” the younger girl added lightly with an evil smirk. She, at least, had mastered the most basic spells left-handed over the summer – the only good thing to come out of having broken her arm, she thought.

###  Thursday, 31 March 1994

#### Hogwarts Grounds

The Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match was looming, only two days away, and Mary was feeling decidedly nervous, because although she had more or less mastered the Firebolt since returning to Hogwarts, she still hadn’t quite mastered the Patronus.

It had been _ten weeks_ , and she had practiced it obsessively – she was _so close_ she could almost _taste_ it. Two weeks before, she had managed to maintain her incorporeal shield again, as well as she had done before she went into the Chamber. She had apologized to the Urquharts and Aunt Minnie, to Remus and Snape, and even to the Grangers – all of whom had forgiven her, with various degrees of surprise – but there was still one memory in particular that was eating at her, and she hadn’t quite been able to bring herself to deal with it. Part of her reluctance stemmed from the fact that she still didn’t know what she should have done _instead_ , given the information and resources she had had then, but more from the fact that she couldn’t face telling _that particular person_ she was sorry: Draco Malfoy.

But unlike with Thorpe and the victims of the Veritaserum Conspiracy, she couldn’t quite convince herself that swearing to herself (and Lilian) that she would never do anything like that again was good enough. (Probably because she _could_ apologize to Draco without actually seriously endangering herself and her friends.) And the fact remained, with that last memory preying on her conscience, even the memory she had found in the Chamber, of belonging and connection and _magic_ wasn’t enough to push her over the edge into a fully corporeal guardian construct.

It just… hurt her pride, she supposed, to think of admitting to the blond ponce that she had been in the wrong. She knew it was true; siccing snakes on him to force him to accept her as a Slytherin had been _efficient_ , but also clumsy and, as with her duel with Bletchley, had escalated their conflict to a level of violence she hadn’t really wanted to employ, and wouldn’t have been able to maintain if he had called her bluff.

In short, it had been overkill, and she knew it.

But it was _Draco Malfoy_.

Even though they were generally on good terms these days (on the Quidditch pitch, at least), he would probably hold this one moment of honest repentance against her forever, or else demand some terribly (equally) embarrassing forfeit before he granted her forgiveness. A proper apology demanded not only an acknowledgment that one’s actions were wrong, but an offer of redress, and while everyone else she had spoken to had dismissed her offer, or simply made her promise not to do it again, she could only imagine what Draco might think to ask for. Given what she had done to him, he would be well within his rights to demand a public apology in the Slytherin Common room, or worse, the Great Hall.

Still, for the initial apology, she could at least approach him privately.

She had put it off until the last possible moment – their Thursday afternoon free, her last chance to talk to him before the night’s Patronus lesson – but she was convinced that it had to be done, so she was now headed for the niffler kennels the new Care of Magical Creatures professor had erected between the lake and the non-forbidden wooded area on the opposite side of the grounds from Hagrid’s hut. According to Hermione and the Marauders’ Map, he would be there alone (without Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, or Lilian) until their history lesson. (It was a little bit scary how much information Hermione could gather with the tools at her disposal this year).

The tenuous air of resolve she had been cultivating all day dissolved almost immediately when she entered the kennel. Draco had let all of the nifflers – at least twenty of them – out of their cages, and was sitting on the floor sans robes, playing with them. He flicked marbles and coins across the room one at a time, and the whole pack surged after each shiny object. They fought desperately for the prize, then returned to swarm over the grinning, slightly-disheveled blond in search of his horde once it had disappeared into one of their pouches. Mary wasn’t sure, but it might have been the most relaxed she had ever seen the boy. Normally he would be freaking out to have a hair out of place, not to mention the fact that his tie was askew and his once-pressed shirt badly wrinkled. The small creatures stood to attention like gophers when she opened the door. It wasn’t until she crossed the warded threshold that she realized she had made a terrible mistake: her glasses glinted in the low light.

The nifflers leapt forward, as though governed by a single mind.

She shrieked as they scampered over her, snatching at her lenses, and Draco laughed, the bloody prat. “Potter? What are you doing here?”

She glared at his blurred form, too near to make out the details. “I could ask you the same thing, you know!”

“I like nifflers,” he admitted, his face growing pink. “I used to have one when I was little, but a leprechaun got him, and Mother said she would be damned if I could have another because he kept getting into her jewelry box and making off with the best pieces to line his nest. But you’re not even in Creatures, so…” he trailed off inquisitively.

“I was looking for you,” she shrugged. “Look, can you help me get my glasses back? I can’t really _see_ you, and that makes this even more awkward.”

The boy sighed dramatically. “ _I suppose_. But only if you tell me what’s awkward.”

“Help me get my glasses back, first.”

He probably made a face at her, because he didn’t respond save to begin levitating nifflers back to their individual cages. If he did, she couldn’t tell. Once all of the dark, fuzzy blobs were safely tucked away, he instructed her to tickle the blighted things. Their convulsions forced their collected loot from the pouches on their bellies. He was far more efficient about it than she was, though that could have been because he had far more experience with the creatures. She had tortured three into giving up a handful of marbles and knuts when he exclaimed, “Got them!” from somewhere in the middle of the bank of cages. “Bit scratched, though. _Reparo!_ Here.”

“Thanks,” she said stiffly, putting them on to reveal a very curious Malfoy mere feet away.

“So what’s awkward?” he asked casually. For some reason, the juxtaposition of words and tone reminded her of Blaise.

“I… I wanted to apologize,” she said quickly, inspecting a niffler, rather than looking at his pointy face. It was black-furred and sleek, about the size of a small cat, with a long body, short little legs, and a whiskered snout which twitched at her through the bars of its cage.

“What for?” Draco asked warily, retrieving the loot from another niffler.

“For, um… back in first year. With the snake. I… I shouldn’t have threatened you like that. I’m sorry. If… if it helps, it was just a bluff. I wouldn’t have let him bite you. If there is anything I may do to right the imbalance between us, I beg you, speak.” The last sentence, taken directly from an etiquette book on the subject, was rather more rushed than was entirely appropriate, and when she risked looking up, he was smirking at her, but strangely, as though his heart wasn’t really in it.

“This is about that blasted Chamber, isn’t it?”

She nodded, shame-faced, shifting uncomfortably in place. This was the moment of truth: he could dismiss her offer, with something along the lines of ‘there can be no discord requiring redress between friends’; he could ask for something reasonable (but embarrassing), like a public apology; or he could demand something entirely unreasonable that she would never give him, which would be the end of even their limited, Quidditch-based camaraderie. She thought that the second option was the most likely. They weren’t good enough friends for him to completely dismiss a threat of bodily harm, even if it was more than two years ago, and Flint would kill them if they couldn’t get along well enough to play Quidditch together.

Draco let her stew for almost two minutes before he finally answered. “It’s… well, honestly, it’s not okay, what you did. You really can’t just go around setting snakes on people!” He sighed and made a face, as though he really didn’t want to say what he said next: “But I can’t in good faith demand a forfeit, because I kind of understand why you did, and… I know I didn’t leave you much of a choice. I… It, the Chamber, it made me see a lot of things that I didn’t realize before. About myself, and the way I’ve acted, well… basically my whole life. I… probably owe you an apology as well. For starting those pranks, among other things.” He straightened his hair and cuffs compulsively, looking anywhere but at her. “I was a prat, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for things to go as far as they did. I mean, I hated you, but I didn’t want you _dead_ , and Sterling was bragging about how she nearly killed you on the stairs… So yes. I’m sorry, too. Ah. I’m willing to call it even if you are.”

Mary felt herself sag in relief. “Yes. Definitely. Right. Um. Shall we just… move on, then?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Haven’t we? I mean, we’re not friends, but we get on alright, or I thought we did.”

“Well, we get on alright for Quidditch,” the seeker admitted. “Off the pitch, you’re still a bit of a prat.”

Draco glowered. “Hey! I haven’t done anything to you in _ages!_ ”

“Mocking Neville for losing the passwords to Gryffindor Tower?” she reminded him. “Calling Dave a mudblood where you think I can’t hear? Implying that Hermione’s parents aren’t even sentient? Helping Pansy torture Tracey?”

“Oh, come _on_. Why should any of that matter to _you_? You don’t even _like_ Davis!”

“I didn’t say you’d been a prat _to_ _me_ , just that you still are one in general,” Mary glared at him. “And I do care how you treat my friends, and even though I don’t like Tracey, the shite you guys give her about being a halfblood is really _not_ funny. I don’t like bullies, and that’s what it is, bullying, pure and simple.”

“It’s not _bullying_ , it’s just teasing! And we wouldn’t do it half as much if she wasn’t so utterly desperate,” Draco muttered. “I mean, we don’t give _you_ shite about _your_ parentage, because _you_ don’t act like it matters. There’s nothing more pathetic than an impure blood-purist.”

“That! That right there! You go after her because she’s already pathetic – an easy target. And I’m pretty sure she doesn’t think you’re just teasing, either. Same for Neville – Lilian and I can tell the difference between you being mean for fun and being really _meaning_ it, but I’m pretty sure it’s all the same to him.”

The boy flinched. “I know. The Chamber… It showed me.”

“Well, there you go, then.” She waited a beat before she added, “Are you going to apologize to Neville, too?”

Draco shrugged, obviously uncomfortable. “Maybe. I’ve… I’ve been talking to Snape, a bit, since, well… since the Chamber. I… might. I’ve not talked to him – Longbottom – at all, since then. It… seemed the best course, really.” He turned back to the nifflers, continuing to retrieve the trinkets they had gathered.

After a long moment of being determinedly ignored, Mary sniffed and rolled her eyes (an expression of superior disdain she had perfected in imitation of Daphne). “Well, you should.”

“Should _what_ , Potter?”

“Apologize to Neville, you prat! And for whatever else the Chamber showed you. It helps, you know,” she added, as a haunted look flashed across his face.

Mary didn’t often spend much time looking at the features of boys she didn’t particularly like, but that expression gave her pause. On closer inspection, the normally-refined and pampered pureblood seemed not only disheveled, but _worn_ , as though he hadn’t been sleeping or eating as well as usual.

“You don’t know anything about it, Potter!” he snapped.

She wasn’t entirely surprised to be told to mind her own business – they weren’t even friends, after all – but she flinched at his sudden vehemence. “Like hell I don’t!” she glared back, irritated by his utter blindness to the fact that she – all of them, who had gone into the bloody Tempering Chamber – had gone through the exact same thing. “Nightmares? Guilt? Not being able to look yourself in the eye in the bloody mirror? You didn’t think I apologized to you because I care what you think of me, do you?”

Draco just blinked at her, as though he had never seen her before in his life, and then, inexplicably, started laughing.

“What the fuck is so funny?” she demanded, which only made him laugh harder. She crossed her arms and glared at him, tapping a toe impatiently while he collected himself.

At long last, his laughter ceased, leaving a strangely hollow expression behind. “No, Potter,” he said, almost too calmly. “No. I never thought you cared what I thought of you. But you don’t understand. What did the stupid room show you? Siccing a snake on me? What else? Telling off the firsties for picking on your precious Rhees? Getting into that fight with Bletchley? Being out after curfew?” he suggested mockingly. “Having too many fucking tea parties with the professors? You don’t _do_ anything! If you weren’t the Heir, I’d say you were missorted! You probably hardly had anything worth pointing out!”

Mary bit her tongue hard to resist saying something defensive. There was a certain mystique in being thought ruthless and slightly dangerous within Slytherin House, and she liked to think she was as much as the next Snake, but there was far more value in keeping one’s nose clean outside of it. Draco didn’t need to know about the Conspiracy, Cadmus Thorpe, or even the far-less-illegal boggart-summoning attempt which had precipitated the whole Tempering Room ordeal, even if it did mean he saw her as a goody-two-shoes most of the time. Besides, he was right, kind of: she might be ruthless and thoughtless sometimes, and she certainly didn’t think of herself as a good person, but compared to Draco, she was positively Hufflepuff.

“ _You_ didn’t spend two whole years damn-near breaking the truce in defense of a father who _really was a Death Eater_!” the boy concluded angrily.

“Wait… what?” The boy flushed, clearly feeling that he had over-shared. He didn’t answer. “No, seriously… What?” Mary repeated, slightly baffled. “What has your father got to do with it?”

“He was a bloody Death Eater, alright? Happy, are you, now that I’ve admitted it?” he pouted, avoiding her eye in favor of petting a niffler.

“Um… no?” Mary was seriously considering the possibility that they were having two completely different conversations at the moment. “Why would I be? I mean, didn’t everyone already know that he was?”

“No! No, they didn’t!” Draco snapped defensively, before admitting, almost too quietly to hear: “ _I_ didn’t.” He cleared his throat before explaining himself. “I… he always said that we should be proud of our heritage and our blood and our magic, but… he didn’t talk about the war. I – I knew that he’d been accused, of course. Mum told me that. But she also told me the charges were dropped. He has the mark, but I always thought it wasn’t his fault. That he was under the Imperius.” His voice cracked, and his housemate pretended not to notice as he bit his lower lip to keep it from trembling. “I was such an _idiot_.”

Mary wasn’t sure exactly what to say to that. She _wanted_ to say, ‘yes, you really were – still are, sometimes, in fact _,_ ’ but she was pretty sure that wasn’t a good response. “Is that what the Room showed you?” she finally asked, ending the too-long, awkward silence which developed as she cast about for something relatively neutral to say.

“No, that’s what Mabon showed me, and Snape confirmed. My father recruited him long before he was supposedly imperiused.” The bitterness in the boy’s tone was unmistakable, and it only grew worse as he continued: “The fucking _Room_ made me re-live all the times I went around acting like the truce didn’t apply to me because I thought – gods and powers, it sounds so stupid now – but _I thought it didn’t_. Oh, I knew that people thought of me as a Death Eater’s son, but I thought because he wasn’t, really, they had to respect what I’d been taught as a kid – about how purebloods are the best and mu-muggleborns,” he corrected himself, “don’t belong and they’re ruining our society – and it wasn’t like I was _really_ breaking the truce saying it because my father wasn’t _really_ a Death Eater. I even thought that acting like the Truce didn’t apply was kind of a way to prove that it _didn’t_ – that Father really wasn’t a Death Eater, because if he was, I wouldn’t dare go around calling Granger and Finch-Fletchley mudbloods, would I? Except it turns out it was all a huge fucking lie, and I’ve spent the last two and a half years making an arse of myself because I’m the only one who didn’t know that, and that thrice-fucking-cursed Gryffindor torture chamber _won’t let me forget it_!”

He paced angrily while Mary, once again, considered what to say. Perhaps, she thought, this had not been a very good idea. What was it with people up and breaking down on her, lately, anyway? First Ginny, then Hermione, and now Draco? She would have expected him at least to tell Pansy or Lilian or, well… just about _anyone_ what was bothering him before he told _her_. But she couldn’t exactly back out _now_.

“Well, maybe you’re right,” she said after a long moment. “Nothing it showed me was… quite that bad. But apologizing has helped. You should think about it.”

He sneered magnificently at her. “Oh, yes, I’ll just go tell everyone how _sorry_ I am to have offended their political correctness over the past two years, and then everything will be just _peachy keen_.” Mary did a double-take at the sarcastic muggle expression, which Draco ignored. “Just one little problem: I’m _not_ sorry! I feel bad about putting myself and my family and friends in danger by ignoring the Truce, and I know I shouldn’t have been so rude about it, but I have every right to express my opinion on mu-muggleborns, _especially_ since I _know_ I’m right!”

Mary sneered at him. “Oh, yeah, muggleborns are just inherently inferior and have no place in our world, that’s why Hermione is the best in our year, and Dave got sorted into Slytherin, and Miss Clearwater is the bloody Head Girl!”

Malfoy flushed. “Granger is _not_ the best, she’s just the swottiest! And Clearwater is the Head Girl because Dumbledore is Progressive and biased!”

“And Dave?” Mary glared at the blond, who scowled right back.

“The Hat’s gone as senile as Dumbledore, obviously. And besides,” he continued (before Mary could say ‘Obviously it has, because it put _you_ in Slytherin, too!’), “I never said there’s _no_ place for muggleborns, it’s just not at the _top_. They’re not our _equals_. They make perfectly fine shop clerks, and, and… tutors, and such, but they shouldn’t be making laws and pretending they’re just as good as _real_ wizards!”

Mary was momentarily speechless. “You are _such_ a _classist bastard_! Why _shouldn’t_ muggleborns make laws? I have a seat on the bloody Wizengamot, and I was raised by muggles every bit as much as Hermione was!”

The boy flushed. “That’s _different_. _You’re_ almost a pureblood.” Mary snorted. By the most lenient (and most common) standard – four magical grandparents – she _was_ a pureblood, but no one knew that. “And you’re at least trying to fit in. Mudbloods _don’t_! They don’t think they need to bother!”

“Don’t use that word!” the girl snapped reflexively. “And that doesn’t even count! It’s not like anyone’s offering any muggleborns the chance to learn, like the Urquharts have done for me!”

“Even if they did, the muggleborns wouldn’t _go_. They’d much rather go to their little muggle club, and talk about how great life is without magic, and how _backward_ and _quaint_ Magical Britain is,” Draco said with supreme confidence.

“And what would you know about it?” Mary scoffed. “Been skulking around their meetings, have you? Sore about not being invited?”

“Of course I’m not!” the boy hissed, clearly furious. “But I have my sources, and they say the mu-muggleborns spend half their time talking about all the changes they want to make so _our_ world will be more like _theirs_ , and it’s _not right_! We’re _not_ muggles, and we shouldn’t have to act like it!”

His face had been growing increasingly pink as he spoke, but by the end of his little tirade, it had reached a very frustrated shade of red. Mary couldn’t really refute his (quite possibly made up) ‘sources,’ because she still hadn’t attended another MSA meeting herself, and even had her own misgivings about the club – it had taken her a long time to put her finger on why, exactly, she was so unenthusiastic about it, but she was pretty sure that it was because there was something to what Malfoy was saying, at least about how it was an excuse for muggleborns to associate only with each other, instead of getting to know the magical world. It wasn’t the same for the first and second-years as it was for Hermione and Finch-Fletchley and the older students – there were enough of them that it was a legitimate possibility they would never make any close friends who weren’t muggleborn. 

Still, she wasn’t about to admit that to the classist blond prat.

She opted to end the conversation, instead. Her business with Malfoy was done, and she would be damned if she stood around listening to his pureblood superiority dragon-shite.

“Nobody’s asking you to act like a muggle, Malfoy, just a half-decent human being,” she sneered, injecting as much moral superiority into her tone as she could manage before turning on her heel and stalking out of the shed.

She refused to look back, and slammed the door behind her, drowning out whatever response her housemate attempted to make.

}{-}{-}{-}{-}{

That evening, her conscience truly clear for the first time since she had entered the Tempering Chamber, with the feeling of belonging and _rightness_ after that very first Samhain firmly in mind, Mary finally managed to cast the Patronus against the boggart-dementor, a brightly glowing, feline form pouncing and striking at it, driving it back.

Hermione and Lilian were obviously jealous of her progress, and Remus was nearly as surprised as Mary, who was so proud and elated to have finally done it that she had nearly dropped her wand.

After the other girls made a few more attempts, she and Lilian returned to Slytherin, chattering giddily about the Gryffindor match in two days’ time. Lilian was excited because she had been informed at dinner that she would be starting as a chaser, playing her first full match (due to an unfortunate Transfiguration accident involving Derrick Bole’s left arm, a golden retriever, and a Switching Spell). Mary, for her part, was relieved and ecstatic, because for the first time since that first match of the year, almost five months before, she was certain that whatever happened on Saturday, she was _ready_.


	33. Sweet Victory Tainted

###  Saturday, 2 April 1994

#### Slytherin Quidditch Lockers

It was a beautiful day for Quidditch: a dry, almost springy morning, with the slightest breeze out of the west, and just enough cloud-cover to prevent the sun from blinding the players. Practically perfect. Both teams were in top form, which kept the game exciting. Draco said nothing of their argument only days before, and Mary followed his lead. He and Lilian worked seamlessly with Flint to match the Gryffindor chasers goal for goal. The Firebolt had reacted to Mary’s slightest shift like a dream, and she snagged the Snitch easily when it finally appeared, after two and a half hours of hard (but enjoyable) flying.

There was not the slightest hint of a dementor to be seen, and Mary even managed to pull off the play she and the Beaters had worked out against one of the red-headed menaces: she caught a bludger in her slip-stream, flying just fast enough that it couldn’t catch her and far enough away from everyone else that she wouldn’t accidentally shake it off, while Warbler stonewalled the other Weasley and Snark belted the second bludger straight at her target. Then all she had to do was rush him while he was distracted, dive around him _and_ the second bludger at the very last second, and if the timing was _perfect_ (which it was), the beater would take the one that was tailing her full-on. (He did see it coming, and barrel-rolled with the impact to avoid any broken bones, but she still counted it as a successful play, because she, _the seeker_ , had managed to _hit a beater with a bludger_.) The crowd went wild and the Slytherins scored as Wood, who was the Gryffindors’ keeper as well as their Captain, was distracted by what Mary, at least, considered to be History in the Making.

Now that they had proven the play successful, all they had to do was think of a good name for it.

She spiraled down to earth when Madam Hooch finally blew the whistle as a sullen Lee Jordan announced the final score (“Two-ninety, one-fifty to Slytherin, though I still don’t think that move on their Seeker’s part was entirely legal…”), absolutely sure that nothing could possibly ruin a day this good.

The girls let the boys have the first go at the showers, accepting the delighted praise of their year-mates and Mary’s Minions, who had streamed out of the stands to congratulate them on their triumph. By the time the male half of the team was finished and back in their day-robes, most of the crowd had dispersed. Even Nora had disappeared, though Dave and Alex were still present, and seemed rather confused about where she had gone. They shrugged it off, however, to accompany the majority of the team up to the Castle while Mary and Lilian finally peeled off their sweaty uniforms and discussed the relative merits of a soak in the caldarium.

The Quidditch locker rooms were very nice, if far more old-fashioned than the bathrooms in the school. According to _Hogwarts: A History_ , they were styled on Roman baths, with the frigidarium, the cold pool, replaced by unheated showers (which every Quidditch player learned how to apply a heating charm to at the earliest opportunity). The tepidarium tended to be rather cold as well, at the best of times, and Mary had never been tempted to just sit around in the hot tub by herself after a match. It wasn’t exactly forbidden for reserves to use them as well, but in the words of Envy Seran, why get wet when you still had walk across the cold grounds if you didn’t have to? Even with drying charms, a hot shower or a dip in the caldarium only made the air outside seem colder. (In all honesty, the only reason the team showered directly after matches was to give the stands time to clear out. After practice, they generally waited until they reached the Castle to change and wash up.)

Technically, one locker room was supposed to be used by the boys, and one by the girls, but when Gryffindor and Slytherin were playing against each other, common sense and convention dictated that each team used one. Ginny had told Mary and Lilian that the Gryffindor chasers, Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson, and Alicia Spinnet, just showered with their boys, but they were all older, and had nothing to be shy about. Even Lilian, bold as she was, wasn’t entirely willing to strip in front of their male team-mates, and Sadie and Mary had long-since agreed that it was better to just wait. Mary, at least, thought that it was embarrassing enough sharing the open shower-room with another girl (she had had it to herself the year before, given that she was the only girl on the starting team), and Sadie liked to take her time washing her hair after a match.

On this occasion, though, it seemed Sadie was in a hurry. “You girls have fun,” she winked, whisking her hair up in her towel and casting a drying charm on the lot (the best trick Mary had seen yet for preventing the infamous Drying Charm Frizz). “I have a fit Hufflepuff waiting for my triumphant return.”

“Poor Blake will be so disappointed,” Lilian murmured to Mary before turning to the fourth-year. “I think _we_ should be telling _you_ to have fun!”

Sadie winked. “I don’t kiss and tell… but if you’re looking for a good time, Jack Aston is _always_ fun.”

At that, both of the younger girls laughed aloud. “Don’t let _us_ keep you, then,” Mary offered.

The keeper blew them kisses and they chorused farewells as she sauntered toward the lockers, wearing her towel as a turban, and nothing else. Mary sighed enviously, wondering if she would ever be able to pull off _sauntering_. Probably not.

“Come on,” Lilian said, elbowing her gently in the arm. “Hot tub!”

“Should we grab our towels first, do you think?” Unlike Sadie, they had left them in their lockers, poor planning if ever Mary had seen it.

“Nah. Let’s just make a run for it. Ready? Race you!”

Before Mary could respond, Lilian had already taken off, slipping and sliding across the wet, tiled floor of the shower room and into the dimly-lit bathing room. Unlike the shower room, which had light-globes like the ones in Ravenclaw Tower, the only source of light was a series of small window-vents, set high in the outside wall. The seeker followed more slowly, and entered the water more gracefully than her friend’s cannonball leap.

Lilian surfaced hissing in pain.

“Are you okay?” Mary asked, only moderately concerned. The older girl seemed to be holding an ankle, rather than her head, so it couldn’t be that bad.

She nodded. “This isn’t nearly as deep as I thought,” she muttered ruefully. “I banged up my knee up a little. It’ll be fine.” As though to reinforce the point, she settled onto the bench built around the edge of the pool and let her feet float out in front of her. “This is _nice_ ,” she sighed.

Mary agreed. “Mmm… we really should do this more often. Think we could get Hermione to sneak in with us?”

“Maybe. Does she swim?”

“Dunno. I don’t. Never learned. My cousin’s friend almost drowned me once. But this is okay, since it’s not too deep.” She dipped her head back to let her hair drift on the hot water, and when she looked back up, Lilian rolled her eyes.

“So casual: My cousin’s friend almost drowned me. My cousin broke my wrist. And oh, what was it… _Cousin Crushing_ – I haven’t forgotten that was a thing!”

Mary glared, and tried futilely to hide behind crossed arms, suddenly feeling even more naked than she had in the brighter, more open room. “Leave it alone, Lils.”

The older girl raised both hands out of the water in a placating gesture. “Fine. Whatever. I’m just saying…”

“Don’t. Unless you want to talk about why you still haven’t talked to Aerin about Connor.”

Now it was Lilian’s turn to curl in upon herself, as though trying to hide with nowhere to go. “I’m going to. I _am_ ,” she repeated, at Mary’s disbelieving snort. She sounded exhausted, and looked it in this light, far more than she did when they were outside surrounded by distractions and other people.

“Are you all right?” the younger girl asked hesitantly.

Lilian opened her mouth as though she was considering lying, but then shook her head. “I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I keep remembering… I wish we had never gone in that fucking room.”

“Oh, _Lilian_ ,” Mary sighed, squeezing her hand and ignoring the wave of awkwardness when her best friend pulled her into a hug, completely disregarding their lack of clothing.

“I know I have to tell her,” Lilian muttered, burying her face in Mary’s dripping hair. “I know we have to talk to our parents about it. I just – it’s going to be so much worse. It’s going to get so much worse before it gets better.” She broke down in real tears then, for the first time Mary could recall seeing, her whole body shaking as she sobbed.

Mary had no idea what to do. If this wasn’t the most horribly uncomfortable situation she had ever been in, she didn’t know what was. It definitely beat Ginny’s breakdown – at least _then_ she had had _clothes_ on. She settled, after a too-long moment of indecision, for rubbing her friend’s back and making shushing noises.

“It _will_ be better, though,” she offered softly, but it didn’t seem to make any difference.

If anything, Lilian cried harder. “I don’t th-think I c-can do it,” she gasped thickly, through the tears.

“You can. I know you can,” Mary reassured her.

Finally she pulled herself together enough to sit back and wash the tears from her face. “M’sorry,” she mumbled. “I – crying all over you…”

The smaller girl shrugged. “’s okay.” Honestly, what else was she going to say?

Lilian squeezed her hand back, and gave her a grateful smile. “Ready to get out and face the crowd?”

Mary nodded. “But I’m not racing you this time,” she joked weakly as they clambered out of the pool.

“I don’t think my leg is up for that anyway,” the taller girl admitted, inspecting her right shin, which was not just ‘banged up a little’ but scraped badly enough that it had to have been bleeding, and mottled with bruises. Mary winced in sympathy, realizing that she must have hit the edge of the bench on the other side of the pool when she leapt in.

“You’re going to Madam Pomfrey with that, right?”

The older girl sighed. “I probably should… but I don’t like to miss the party.”

“Don’t be stupid. There will be Pumpkin Pasties and butterbeer left when you get back.”

“Ooh, maybe you’re right. It hurts more the longer it’s out of the water,” Lilian muttered, opening her locker to fetch out her towel.

“You think?” Mary asked sarcastically, unlatching her own.

“Do you know a spell to stop bleeding?” the brassy blonde asked. “I don’t want to get it on my underclothes.”

The younger girl turned to look at her, absentmindedly reaching for her own towel as she examined the wound again. “What if we – _gah!_ ”

“What?” Lilian looked up from poking at her leg and immediately shouted, “Liz!”

Mary said nothing in response, because she was busy being strangled by an innocent-looking stretch of white terrycloth. It had somehow– she had no idea how – become animated and was doing its best python impression with her neck and arms as its prey. The only thought that made it through the panic and flashback images of Tom Riddle standing before her as the Basilisk crushed the life out of her was that a towel shouldn’t be this strong! She fought against it with all her strength, and only just managed to free her arms – she could barely work a finger under the coil crushing her neck.

Lilian leapt forward to help, her fingers scrabbling against Mary’s strangely numb face as the world began to go fuzzy around the edges and she collapsed to her knees dizzy and light-headed.

Then she disappeared with a shriek which cut off abruptly.

Mary managed to work a second finger between the cloth and her skin, gaining enough space to breathe, until the free end of the towel threw itself at her face, attempting, apparently, to smother her.

It was far less competent at that than strangling, though it did manage to blind her as she fought to see what had happened to Lilian. She could hear her friend stumbling and falling, and then something latched onto her leg, wrapping around her and working its way up her torso, constricting even more tightly than the bloody corset Catherine had bought for her, crushing the air out of her lungs.

Her breathing became shallow and she felt as though she was on the verge of fainting – and very probably dying shortly thereafter – when a familiar voice snapped, “ _Terminus!”_

Nothing happened, which Pansy – Mary was sure that was Pansy, though she had no idea what she was doing there – seemed to realize as well, because she moved on to “ _Finite!_ ” and when that didn’t work, “ _Rawestan!_ _Xepagiazo!”_ Still, nothing happened, though Mary could see flashes of spell-light through the porous cloth.

“ _Atstumt!_ ” a second, much softer voice said firmly, and the towel was yanked away from Mary’s face, enough to see a very determined-looking Millicent pointing her wand at her. She tried again: “ _Transvecto!_ ”

The pressure around Mary’s neck lessened with a painful jerk as Pansy began repeating the latter spell, which seemed to be the most effective.

Lilian, somehow, had also become caught up in the spell, Mary noticed, grappling with the robes still trying to crush her ribs and now making a move toward her face. She looked even worse off than Mary felt – apparently she had stumbled into her open locker, because she was nearly cocooned under writhing strips of cloth. Mary could see panicked eyes rolling between the legs of the bloomers wrapped around her head.

“ _Transvecto!”_ Pansy snapped off again, and the robes Mary was fighting suddenly pulled away from her to join the towel in thrashing in midair. She heaved in a great breath, which she released in an involuntary whine at the stab of pain from her right side – it felt as though she had cracked another rib. Pressing a hand to the injured spot, she wriggled away from the suspended, murderous fabric, seeking her wand, which was in her locker. She was somewhat leery of touching any of her other clothing to get to it, but she could hardly afford to hesitate.

Millicent was chanting, now, _“Laxare, laxare, laxare,”_ loosening the cloth coiled around Lilian’s head and neck, stretching it all out of shape as it was pulled away from her, and then, before Mary could do anything to help, Pansy braced herself against the doorframe and shouted, “ _Lilian arranco!”_

The blonde slid free of the misshapen pile of cloth, pulled across the tile and under the bench to lie at her feet, panting heavily.

“Burn it,” she croaked, as the others looked at each other and the still-moving clothing and towels, at a loss as to what to do with them.

Mary though that sounded like a good idea. They could worry about how to get their naked selves back up to the castle when they finished worrying about their clothes trying to kill them. She cast an Immolation Hex at her robes, sustaining it to ensure that they would be entirely consumed. Pansy did the same for the mass of cloth Millicent was apparently still holding at bay.

When the cloth was nothing but ash, they edged forward warily to examine the remains.

On top of the pile of ash that had been Mary’s towel – the first one to go rogue – was a twisted scrap of tarnished metal. She poked at it with the tip of her wand, drawing a spark.

“Is that a cantrip?” Pansy asked, surprise evident in her tone.

“I… think so?” Mary agreed hoarsely, with some reservation. The only other cantrips – disposable, single-use enchantments – she had seen were the crackers at the Christmas feast, and the home-made ones the Weasleys had given her for her birthday, and none of them were metal. Normally they had to be broken to activate the enchantment.

“What happened?” Millicent asked, shrugging off her robe and offering it to Lilian, who took it gratefully.

Pansy did the same for Mary, who tried to explain. “Uh, thanks. I don’t – I think it tried to attack me as soon as I touched it. My towel,” she clarified.

“Spread,” Lilian ground out, her throat clearly more damaged than Mary’s by the attack. “Cloth to cloth.”

“Ugh, stop talking, Lilian, you’re making my throat hurt just listening to you,” Pansy ordered her.

Lilian glared, but obliged.

“We owe you,” Mary said as the stuck-up Slytherin carefully levitated the (hopefully) spent cantrip. Apparently she was not about to take any chances with it accidentally touching anything else, a plan of which Mary wholeheartedly approved.

Lilian nodded her agreement, then stumbled sideways into Millicent. The larger girl caught her despite her surprise. “Did you hit your head?” she asked.

The blonde shrugged and carefully retrieved her own wand from her locker, clutching it like a lifeline.

“We’ll walk you to the Hospital Wing,” Pansy declared.

Mary couldn’t see any reason to object. She certainly wasn’t in any condition to help if Lilian suddenly fainted on her or something, and in any case, it would be weird to just walk off with Pansy’s robes. “What were you two doing, anyway?” she asked as they made their way at Lilian’s limping pace toward the door and the castle.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “It was the weirdest thing – I must have dropped my wand. I could have sworn I had it when we went into the stands, but it wasn’t in my pocket when the match ended, and when Millie finally got a trace on it, it turned out it was on the path over there,” she waved negligently off to their left. “We heard you scream,” she added unnecessarily, looking between the two victims curiously.

Mary pointed at Lilian. “I didn’t even have a chance to scream.”

“Well, it’s lucky you did,” Pansy told Lilian, only faintly condescendingly.

“Lucky you heard her,” Mary replied gratefully.

The conversation subsided then until they reached Madam Pomfrey’s domain, where Pansy took it upon herself to recount their story before excusing herself and Millicent (doubtless to do the same in the Slytherin dorms).

The Mediwitch dealt with the two students’ injuries with startling efficiency – even Mary’s cracked rib was healed in a matter of minutes. She still confined them to a pair of beds, however, while she summoned their Head of House through the Floo.

“Now just you wait here,” she said shortly, even more irritable than usual, it seemed, because Lilian had waited to come to her with her injured leg. “I don’t want you out of those beds until Professor Snape arrives to speak with you!”

She clearly intended to continue lecturing them, but she was interrupted by a soft rap on the door and a trio of familiar Gryffindor faces.

“Madam Pomfrey?” Alicia Spinnet said, edging into the room, followed closely by her fellow chasers. “We were hoping we could –”

“See Mr. Wood?” the matron sighed. “Of _course_ you were! Didn’t the Weasley boys tell you he’s been sedated? He won’t be conscious for a good six to eight hours!”

“All the same,” Katie Bell said, stepping forward stubbornly, “We’d still like to see him. And it’s still visiting hours, isn’t it?”

The mediwitch _huffed_. “Well, if you _must_!” She flicked her wand toward a curtained bed, revealing the unconscious face of the Gryffindor captain. “But mind you don’t disturb the other patients!” The girls huddled around their fallen leader – what had happened to him, anyway? Mary wondered – and Madam Pomfrey turned back to the Slytherins with a slightly harried frown. “What was I saying?”

“Stay in bed until Professor Snape gets here?” Lilian hazarded.

“Yes, well, mind you do! Would you like the curtains up?” she asked, glancing over at the Gryffindors.

They weren’t being very loud, and it wasn’t as though either Mary or Lilian actually needed to relax and recover. Mary glanced over to see the other girl rolling her eyes. “No, I think we’ll be okay,” she said, somewhat amused.

The matron huffed again. “Well, just… wait here. And I’ll take _this_ ,” she said, swiping the used cantrip off Lilian’s bedside table with a conjured handkerchief and flicking a sterilizing charm at the newly cleared surface as she bustled away.

They lay in silence until they were certain she was gone, at which point Mary sat up, crossing her legs and turning to face Lilian. She nabbed her wand from her own table and cast Snape’s anti-eavesdropping charm over the two of them.

“So who do you think did it?” she asked calmly.

Lilian rubbed her eyes with one hand, the other still clutching her wand. She had refused to set it down since they had arrived, and given how utterly helpless she had been in the locker room, Mary really couldn’t blame her. “I don’t know. Who wants to kill you _now_?”

“What? Why _me_?”

The other Slytherin just gave her a flat look. “You’re Mary Potter.”

“Well, _yeah_ , but I haven’t _done_ anything to anyone lately!”

“It started with your towel,” Lilian reminded her. “It didn’t spread to my stuff until I touched you.”

Mary sighed. “Well, fine, maybe I was the target, but…”

“But _what_?”

“It’s just… I really don’t think Sirius Black is after me.”

“Well, no, I think everyone agrees with you on that.”

“And the last two years, it was the Dark Lord trying to kill me and then attacking everyone, and I think if it was _him_ he wouldn’t have waited until _now_ to try something.”

Lilian hesitated, but after a moment, she nodded. “Probably not.”

“And Remus is the Defense Professor, and it _definitely_ wasn’t _him_.”

The older Slytherin snorted before agreeing, “Yeah, he’s the least-threatening werewolf _ever_.”

Mary darted a glance at the Gryffindors, who were watching them curiously, but didn’t seem to have understood. “Don’t say that aloud!” she hissed anyway. Lilian shrugged unrepentantly. “ _Anyway_ , if it’s not Sirius Black or the Dark Lord or the Defense Professor, I have no idea who would be trying to kill me! I mean, no one knows about the thing second year, or the thing _we_ did, and –”

“And you don’t think anyone would try to kill you just for being the Heir of Slytherin, or the Girl Who Lived, or, for fuck’s sake, Lady bloody Potter?”

“Heir Ascendant,” Mary corrected her automatically.

“Whatever.” Lilian rolled her eyes as though Mary was being deliberately obtuse. “The _point_ is, there are _loads_ of people who have reasons to hate you.”

The younger girl grimaced. She knew that. Snape had gone out of his way to remind her of it not too long ago. “But most of them aren’t in the school, are they?” she asked rhetorically.

“What about Bletchley?”

Mary considered this for a moment, but then decided, “No, I don’t think she would try anything, not after the duel. Didn’t you tell me she almost got kicked out?”

“Yeah, well –”

“Who almost got kicked out?” Bell interrupted from across the ward.

Mary felt herself flush, even as she watched Lilian go pink. Forgetting to renew the anti-eavesdropping charm was a terribly amateur mistake.

“None of your business,” Lilian told her.

Mary quickly changed the subject: “What happened to Wood?”

The Gryffindor girls glared at her. “Not that it’s any of _your_ business,” Angelina Johnson said, sneering at Lilian, “but he tried to drown himself in the showers after your little performance out there.”

“He did _what_?” Mary gaped at her.

“You heard me,” Johnson said, her tone almost accusing.

Spinnet nodded. “Said there’s no way Gryffindor will get the Cup, now, and his chances of getting scouted as a Hogwarts Captain who never won a single Cup are basically nil, so his life is practically over anyway.”

“I _told_ you all he’s been working too hard,” Bell insisted. “But you never listen to me.”

“Well what do you want, Katie? He _has_ to do his NEWTs, and Quidditch is his _life_! The rest of us have OWLs this year! What did you want _us_ to do about him?”

“I don’t _know_ , Angie, but it shouldn’t have gotten to – we shouldn’t have let it get to _this_ ,” Bell snapped, waving at their prone captain, sedated in his bed.

“Angie’s right, Kate,” Spinnet said. “If you were _that_ concerned, why didn’t you tell McGonagall instead of just whining to us, when you _knew_ there was nothing we could do that you couldn’t? Why didn’t you tell the twins?”

Katie scoffed. “What makes you think I didn’t? They didn’t believe me any more than you did, but they thought it was just me having a crush on Oliver. Went on for three hours about him being too old for me and calling me ‘wee kitty Katie’ and didn’t even talk to him about it, the sods!”

Mary couldn’t help interrupting at that point. “Well what did you expect, honestly?”

“Shut up, snake!” Johnson snapped. “This never would have happened if _you_ hadn’t –”

Spinnet silenced her friend, though Mary still recoiled as though slapped. “If _I_ hadn’t?” she muttered, even as a horrifying though occurred to her.

“That’s not fair, Ange, and you know it,” Spinnet said, clearly trying to keep the peace between them.

“Yeah, Johnson, it’s just a _game_ ,” Lilian drawled, glaring at the older Gryffindors.

Spinnet clearly didn’t take kindly to her interruption, glaring back and opening her mouth as though to retaliate – apparently only _she_ was allowed to tell her friends to belt up, Mary thought sardonically. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the Slytherins never learned what she was about to say, because it was at that point that Snape intervened, stalking down the ward from Madam Pomfrey’s office, his robes billowing dramatically.

He assessed the scene in a single glance, then said, sneering (of course) at the Gryffindors, “What are you three doing here?”

“We were just visiting Oliver, sir,” Spinnet said, her voice carefully even.

Snape raised an eyebrow, looking from the bed-bound boy to the three irate girls. “He doesn’t seem to be appreciating your company.”

“Ah… we were just leaving, sir,” Bell said firmly, dragging on Spinnet’s arm and shoving at Johnson with a nearly-inaudible “Come _on_ , bitch, before he starts taking points!”

The professor began casting anti-eavesdropping spells before they had even left the ward. The door closed behind them with an audible _thud_ , and there was a beat of silence before he said, with an intimidating lack of inflection: “ _Explain_.”

He glowered at them as they repeated the story (again), then pulled a familiar conjured handkerchief from his pocket and turned to inspecting the artifact within, casting a bevy of charms upon it.

As he did so, she related her thought to Lilian: “What if they weren’t trying to kill me?”

“What?”

“What if whoever did… _this_ , wasn’t trying to kill me? What if they just wanted to like, scare us or something?”

Lilian frowned. “Don’t you think it was a little _overkill_ for someone just trying to scare us?”

Mary could definitely think of someone – or rather, a pair of someones – who had a habit of going too far with their ‘pranks’ and a history of using cantrips, but before she could make her accusation aloud, Snape declared, in the very short tone which meant he was _highly_ irritated: “I might have been able to find the manufacturer if this cantrip were intact, but the fire has destroyed any lingering traces of the maker’s magical signature.” He glared at the twisted bit of metal, still glowing with purple light from one of his detection spells.

“Sorry, sir,” Lilian muttered, taking responsibility for her idea.

He scowled. “Given the sophistication of the enchantment you described, specifically the element that allowed the curse to spread from one garment to the next, it is in any case probable that the maker and the perpetrator are not one and the same.”

“So you don’t think anyone at Hogwarts could have made it?” Mary asked.

Snape hesitated. “It… _is_ possible. I suspect this would require a post-NEWT level enchanting, but it is impossible to determine given the damage – the traces of the exact curse-mechanism used to animate the material are so vague as to be entirely uninterpretable.”

“So it _could_ be a Hogwarts student, if they’re very good at enchanting?”

“It is far more likely that whoever placed the cantrip acquired it from an off-campus source,” Snape said, with a quelling glare.

“Like someone bought it at Knockturn, or had an older brother or sister make it and send it to them?” Lilian suggested.

Snape nodded slowly, still watching Mary closely. “Do you have some idea who might have done this, Miss Potter?” he asked suspiciously.

She shook her head. She _did_ – the conversation with the Gryffindors had suggested a motive: revenge for Wood’s attempted suicide – but she thought it would be a good idea to determine the Weasleys’ skill as enchanters before she mentioned anything to Snape. They were, after all, only fifth-years. He might not take her seriously if she didn’t at least have some proof that they were capable of the necessary magic.

Snape seemed to accept this, at least for the moment. “Miss Moon?” he asked.

“No, but we’ll let you know if we figure it out,” she said, with a hint of steel in her tone that Mary had never heard before. She looked to her friend in surprise.

Snape _hmm’d_ , then said, very drily, “Very well, then. You are free to go. I believe there is a celebration going on in the usual place.”

Lilian giggled. “You’re not supposed to know about that, Professor!”

The professor rolled his eyes. “As though I haven’t taught you all everything you know about sneaking around,” he snarked, with a hint of amusement.

As they watched him billow back down the ward, Lilian asked, “What do you think he meant, telling us _that_?”

“Probably six different things, and we’ll never guess half of them,” Mary decided after a moment. “Come on, let’s get to the party before Madam P comes back and we’re stuck here all night!”

###  Monday, 4 April 1994

#### Charms Corridor

Determining the Weasleys’ skill as enchanters was, as Mary quickly discovered, rather easy. All she had to do was strike up a conversation with Hermione about the watch they had given her for Christmas, and all the sort of spells they must have used to make it function. Hermione was all too pleased to tell her about the various charms that had been integrated into it – time divinations like _tempus_ to determine the ‘local’ time regardless of where she was in her time-turned day and tuning charms to automatically reset the display time whenever she went back.

Unfortunately, the most difficult part of it all, according to Hermione, was the ‘ping’ they had set up to check that the local time and the display time were in sync every three seconds. This was unfortunate because while such automated query spells seemed like they should be a highly advanced enchanting concept, it was really only post-OWL level in complexity. The watch couldn’t possibly count as proof that the twins could manage the NEWT or post-NEWT animation the robe attack would have required.

This did not, of course, quell her suspicions.

“So what’s the most advanced enchanting project you’ve ever seen them work on?” Mary asked, frustration overwhelming any inclinations she might have toward subtlety. It was Monday afternoon, and the girls were awaiting the dismissal of the charms class before their own.

Hermione hesitated. “Well, we’re working on one thing that’s really quite difficult, but we’re really only trying to reproduce an artefact, so it’s not _terribly_ original or advanced in and of itself. Honestly, the boys aren’t so interested in enchanting. I mean, I’ll be really disappointed in them if they don’t get O’s on their Runes OWLs, but they tend to think of enchanting as more their brother Bill’s wheelhouse. Most of what they’ve experimented with on their own is potions.

“But anyway, why the sudden interest in the Twins? Are you considering making it up with them or something?”

“Well, um…” Mary stuttered. “It’s just – they’re your friends, and I thought I should, I dunno… get to know more about them?”

Lilian scoffed. “She thinks the Twins were the ones behind the attack in the showers.”

“Hey!” Mary pinched her arm, glaring her displeasure, even as Hermione gasped, her face assuming an expression somewhere between pain and anger.

“Lizzie – they would _never_! I can’t believe you think I’d – that they’d – _honestly_!”

The green-eyed Slytherin groaned. “Look, it’s not that I think they’d try to kill us on purpose, but even you have to admit that they can get carried away with their pranks, and with Wood…”

Hermione glared at her. “They didn’t do it, okay? End of story.”

“No!” Mary objected. “It’s not okay, and it’s not the end of the story! Even if they didn’t make the cantrip themselves, they could have asked Bill for it, and –”

“And that wouldn’t work out with your supposed timeline at all, and you know it! Nevermind that Bill would never _give_ them something like that in the first place! How would you even try to make something like that sound like an innocent request, anyway? ‘We just need this spell to turn every bit of cloth it touches into a murderous strangler vine, because…?’ _And_ it takes time to make a cantrip! Even if they _did_ work out how to do it for themselves, it would take longer than the hour and a bit between the end of the match and the attack. It wasn’t them!”

“They could have –” Mary began, but Lilian cut her off.

“She’s right, Liz. It doesn’t work with the timeline.”

“They could’ve already had it ready for something else, and then just decided to use it when they found out about Wood.”

“No, Liz. I talked to Lestrange and Wilkes this morning – they said the Twins were the ones who found Wood and brought him to Pomfrey. They didn’t have time to get back to the pitch before we were attacked. Give it up.” Lilian sounded as though she was caught between resignation and triumph: she had been saying from the beginning that it wasn’t just a prank, but it would have been so much more reassuring if it had been.

“But…” Mary trailed off, even as Hermione said, emphatically, “ _Thank_ you, Lilian.”

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Mary demanded.

“I could hardly get a word in edgewise, could I?” Lilian snapped, causing Mary to look at her closely for the first time since breakfast. The tired circles which she had then attributed to the early hour only looked more pronounced, and even as she watched, the brassy blonde yawned broadly, covering her mouth with the sleeve of her robe.

“Another rough night?” she asked sympathetically. Hermione raised a questioning eyebrow. “Lils hasn’t been sleeping well lately.”

Hermione’s features took on a concerned cast, her earlier anger apparently forgotten, or else set aside in the face of Lilian’s problems, which were so much bigger than her best friend being paranoid about overzealous pranksters. “Is it about… Connor?”

Lilian glared at the pair of them. “Leave it alone. I’m _fine_. Come on, the door’s open.”

The fourth-year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were indeed beginning to filter out of Flitwick’s classroom, so they couldn’t reasonably stop Lilian walking away, but Mary was more certain than ever that her best friend was _not_ fine.

Not at all.

###  Saturday, 9 April 1994

#### Remus Lupin’s Office

##### Remus

She should have expected it, she declared, desperately pacing around the small open space between his desk and the tea table.

It was half past two on a Saturday afternoon when his one-time best friend’s daughter burst into his office with the most cursory by-your-leave and began to explain – so vaguely that, if Remus hadn’t already heard the story from the staff room grapevine, he wouldn’t have understood a bit of it – that _her_ best friend had had completely broken down the day before, and Mary had no idea what to do about it.

So far as he had gathered, the Moon girl had discovered at some point earlier in the year that she and her sister were involved in their younger brother’s tragic – but entirely accidental – death, several years before the girls were to start school. The children, of course, had been obliviated of the event, at the request of their parents, but Miss Lilian had apparently managed to break the obliviation block somehow, and was now attempting to force her sister to do the same.

Poppy had explained that much, in an attempt to solicit the professors’ assistance in suppressing the rumors which had exploded following the incident in the Ravenclaw common room, most of which involved Miss Lilian completely losing her mind, or the Moon girls murdering their brother with malice aforethought, or, in one very confused case, _attempting_ to murder their _older_ brother – the one who was now a Slytherin prefect. In that story, Miss Lilian’s broken, emotional attempt to make her sister understand the situation was misinterpreted as her being afraid of some long-awaited retribution on the part of Prefect Moon.

Those self-same rumors, though they differed vastly in their interpretation of the facts at hand, were very clear on the fact that the younger Moon girl had entered the tower to confront her sister early Friday evening. According to Mary, she and Hermione had been encouraging Lilian to tell Aerin about their role in their brother’s death (or rather ‘what she – they – had to do with all the – what their part in this tragedy that completely destroyed their family was’) for some time. That seemed to be a significant factor in Mary’s guilt over the whole affair.

Finally, after months of attempted intervention, Lilian had finally agreed to reveal the secret to her sister, despite her misgivings. She had dragged Mary along for morale, though Mary, according to her own story, had simply frozen, unable to think of anything to say when the Moon girls’ relationship began crumbling before her very eyes.

“She didn’t believe her, Remus!” she had despaired. “She just – she accused Lilian of lying – of making it all up for some – some horrible reason, apparently – she didn’t say why. Couldn’t, I guess, since, I mean – I don’t know what she could have been thinking – Lilian was telling the truth, I know she was! And I just – I didn’t know what to do! And Lils – she just lost it. She started crying, right there in the common room, accidental magic making like, this mini-cyclone in the middle of the Tower, and she wouldn’t let me touch her, or help her down to the Hospital wing, and Aerin was terrified. If Hermione hadn’t gone to get Madam Pomfrey, I don’t know what would have happened. And now Madam Pomfrey won’t even let me talk to her, and Aerin’s friends won’t let me see her. Sean said they called their parents, which is bound to make things even worse – I mean, it was _their_ idea in the first place, and I’ve met them, and it’s so, _so_ clear that they don’t even _like_ Lilian or Aerin, or even care about them at all, and I just – I don’t know what to do, Remus!”

She looked to him desperately, obviously hoping that he could give her some nugget of adult wisdom which would make everything suddenly clearer, and in that moment, Remus Lupin had known for certain that he was a terrible person. Even though he didn’t know what to do either – hardly had the faintest idea what to tell her, and even less whether it was a good idea even to make a suggestion – even though he knew that this was a terrible, horrifying time for both Lilian and Aerin Moon, and it was damn-near criminal to find any joy or pleasure in the bloody awful situation, he couldn’t help but feel a certain sense of delight that she had come to him for help.

Remus had never had a child – he was certain of that. He had wanted children, once, but the realization of the stigma a werewolf father would bring down on them had put an end to that dream early on, and on the rare occasion he found himself in a situation that could lead to potential offspring, he was very, very careful to ensure it wouldn’t happen. He had always relished the role he played in each of his students’ lives, both here at Hogwarts and as a travelling tutor in the Americas, certain that teaching was as close as he would ever get to fatherhood, but this – a confused teenage girl who, in another world, might have grown up calling him ‘uncle,’ coming to _him_ with her problems, looking to him for advice – this was closer.

And thanks to Severus and his continued covert attempts to make Remus regret the follies of his youth – sending Neville Longbottom to him to talk about the Room of Doom had been a stroke of demented genius, Remus would admit, dredging up long-forgotten horrors and guilt – he had even had a bit of practice recently with the whole ‘difficult student conversations’ bit. He was still feeling it out as he went, but he felt confident enough to at least _try_ to rise to the challenge.

“Mary, please, sit.”

He had ordered tea nearly twenty minutes before, left it sitting neglected as he let Mary rant on about the problem. She flopped gracelessly into a chair, staring broodingly at him as he poured her a cup. “ _Well_?”

“Well?” he repeated.

“What do I _do_ , Remus?”

He sighed heavily. “There’s nothing you _can_ do, Mary. Not now, especially if you can’t speak to them,” he added, speaking over her unborn objection. Then inspiration struck. “Look, have I ever told you about the time Peter and I got into a massive fight over his mum?”

“What? No – but I don’t see –”

“You will.”

She took a deep breath, obviously controlling her impulse to interrupt with effort.

Remus gave her his most reassuring smile. “It’ll make sense, I promise. Now, this was back in sixth year. I had been telling people for years that my mum was ill – it was my excuse to leave the grounds on the full moon perhaps three months in five, that she’d taken poorly and I was desperately needed at home. Most of the Gryffindors, by that point, had become so accustomed to my frequent absences that they were hardly questioned, but on the day of the fight, one of the underclassmen, some snotty fourth-year girl, was going on at me in the library about how I was so unreliable, always disappearing when she needed help with her Muggle Studies homework. I had told all of the underclassmen that I would be around if they ever had questions on anything, even though I had resigned my position as a prefect after that first year, you see.”

“Remus,” Mary glared, pouting at her untouched tea. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“We’ll get there. See, that was the point that your mum took it upon herself to explain to this kid that my mum was practically dying, and I was often called home to see to her, and why didn’t the brat explain her question and Lily would answer it, because she was, in fact, muggleborn, and therefore knew far more about muggles than I did, anyway, and we could stop disturbing everyone else in the library before we got chucked out.

“And for a few hours, everything was fine. Until that girl came up to us at dinner – I always ate with your dad and Peter and Black – anyway, she apologized for acting like an entitled little swot, because she hadn’t known about my mum. And Peter…

“The thing about Peter was, he would never say a bad word against his friends. Never started a fight. He hated being at odds with any of us, and went out of his way to make the Marauders work as a group, even when it meant he had to constantly put up with being compared to your dad and Black and found wanting, and constantly being the butt of their jokes.

“Peter’s mum actually _was_ desperately ill, all through our Hogwarts years. She had a degenerative disease which slowly made her lose control of her magic. Pete’s dad died in one of her episodes, and she lived in a secure ward at St. Mungo’s after that. She squibbed out not long after we graduated and they finally let her move to the muggle world, but sixth year was… almost the height of her illness. It was incredibly crass of us – of me – to fake a mortal illness on my mother’s part, to treat it like a joke, or an excuse, when hardly anyone even knew about Mrs. Pettigrew. It would have been suspicious, you see, for the both of us to have deathly ill mothers, and Pete never got leave to go visit his mum, even though I supposedly did all the time. On the one hand, it was only an excuse, but on the other… It was unforgivably cruel, to continuously rub his face in the fact of his mother’s illness, which he suffered so silently that even we, his closest friends, often completely forgot about it.

“That day, Pete apparently couldn’t take it anymore. He grew cold and withdrawn as soon as the girl mentioned my mother’s fictional illness, and hardly said a word until we were all back in the commons. It was nearly midnight – almost everyone had gone. It was just me, him, and your father, camped out around the fire, and your dad said something about my furry little problem, and Pete just exploded, going off about everyone always being so concerned about me and my mum when she was just fine, when his mum was actually dying, and none of us even gave a shite. None of us ever asked how she was, or whether there was anything we could do to make it easier for him, and he never even got to visit her.

“There was nothing I could say to make it better, though that didn’t stop me trying, insisting that it wasn’t my fault, I hadn’t known him when I first started using that excuse, and what else was I supposed to do at this point? …But really there was no excuse for my insensitivity. I was a self-centered little berk, and I wish now that we had been better friends to him, because, well… you know.

“Of course, I know that now. Back then, I was defensive. I got angry. After all, it seemed to me he was practically saying that I should just let everyone know I was a werewolf, rather than make him feel bad about his mum, whose illness I had no control over or impact on. We had the worst fight we’d ever had in the Marauders, well… barring one other… but that’s not important. Pete refused to talk to me and James for nearly a month. I avoided him like the plague. It was miserable.”

“No offense, Remus, but I don’t get it. What does this have to do with me and Lilian?”

Remus sighed. “Well, in this situation, you’re James. Lilian is Pete, and Aerin is me. See, while Pete and I were shouting at each other, James just sat there, completely dumbfounded. He didn’t know what to say or do – I doubt he had ever considered the possibility that Pete and I would ever get into a fight, and certainly not about _this_. _I_ had never considered it, and I was by far the most likely to consider everything that could possibly go wrong with any given excuse or interaction, overthinking everything and living in mortal fear of giving away the secret.”

“Well, what did he do, then? How did he fix it?”

“He didn’t.”

“What?! Then how – why are you even telling me this?” The girl sulked, crossing her arms and slouching in her chair.

“Mary, there is a point, I promise. James didn’t fix it. He couldn’t. What he did do was tell one of our other friends about it. Marlene. She and Jamie were close – best friends before Hogwarts, almost like the sister he never had. I wasn’t there, obviously, but I can just imagine her scoffing at him, saying ‘You boys, you’re so emotionally incompetent,’ and rolling her eyes before promising to talk to us. Which she did. Eventually. She waited a few days first, let us calm down. I think she talked to Pete first, to figure out his side of the story, because by the time she got to me, she was more than ready to make me see exactly how we’d hurt him. She cut through all my dragonshite defensiveness and by the time she was done with me I was ready to admit how guilty I felt and apologize. She told me that it wasn’t the right time, yet, that Pete wasn’t ready to hear it, but I didn’t listen. I went that day and tried to tell him I was sorry and I’d stop using that excuse, but he wouldn’t talk to me. Went into his animagus form and scurried away. I looked for him for ages, but when he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be. I had to wait until he was ready, too, before we could make it up.”

The professor gave the third-year a hopeful smile. She seemed to be getting it. She had perked up slightly and was nodding along, at least. “So… does that mean you’ll talk to Lilian and Aerin for me?”

Ah… apparently not. “What?”

“Well,” the girl muttered, playing absentmindedly with a lock of her own hair. “If I’m James, and I’m talking to you about it, doesn’t that make you Marlene? The one who fixes things?”

Remus snorted slightly. Marley would have loved that title, if she had made it through the war: ‘Marlene McKinnon, Fixer of Things.’ Gods and powers, how long had it been since he’d thought of her, anyway? But he was getting distracted.

“No. Unlike the three of us, you weren’t alone – half of Ravenclaw tower witnessed Lilian’s little meltdown. Someone else will be your Marlene. Probably someone who knows both Lilian and Aerin better than you do.”

“But I’m Lilian’s best – oh, wait, you mean Sean?”

He smirked slightly. “He’d be my guess. My point was, you aren’t really a part of this fight. It’s not your job to fix it. And even if it was, the best thing you could do right now is… take some time. Let _them_ take some time, calm down, and then try to get to the root of the problem and resolve it.”

“But I – I want to do something _right now_. I want to make it _better_.”

“Some things take time. That’s all I can tell you, Mary. If they come to you, listen to them, be supportive, but if they don’t, you have to give them their space. No matter how close you and Lilian are, or how much you influenced her decision to tell Aerin the truth, it’s still not your fight or your problem to solve.”

The girl’s shoulders slumped in defeat. She finally picked up her teacup, sighing and sipping desolately at the tepid contents. “You’re probably right. Thanks Remus.” She sighed again. “I just _hate_ seeing them all… suffering. And there’s nothing I can do.”

Remus felt he was owed a turn to sigh as well. “That’s life, kid. Sometimes it’s no fun at all, but… that’s life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An update? Sorry guys, I know it's been... ages since the last one. (Shit, nine months? Really? Um. Sorry. Again.) Hopefully the next one won't take quite that long. Should be less angsty and more focus on side plots that haven't gotten much screen time lately. And by lately I mean in the last year or more. (Excuses include: moving, new job, girlfriend moving in, moving again, work being absurdly busy, generally being distracted by plot bunnies when I do have time, energy and motivation to write...)

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal gratitude to fanfiction[dot]net's Feenrai and cinnamonarabesque, who kindly beta-read this story. Fanfiction’s lightning king, Belial666, inwardtransience, and Toraach, and AO3’s Sigfried have also provided invaluable feedback on worldbuilding issues, and I can't thank them enough for putting up with my pages of geeky emails about characterization and themes and ridiculously overly-obsessive magical theory essays.
> 
> As implied by the fact that I am posting this on a fan fiction site, I do not own most of the characters in this story, or the general plot, or most of the settings. I don’t claim to. Even things that are not taken from canon may bear a striking resemblance to other fan works, due to the fact that I’ve read far too many such things. No plagiarism is intended. If you see something that looks familiar from fan fiction, PM me and I will add a reference. 
> 
> This story is written for fun, not profit, and I have and will receive no money in relation to it. Furthermore, as this is a single-point-of-divergence universe (or it’s supposed to be), there will be points where dialogue which is not affected by changes to canon thus far is lifted directly from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. In order to preserve the pacing of the story, these passages have not been marked. I do not claim ownership of those lines. If you recognize them, you doubtless know who does.
> 
> Cross-posted on fanfiction.net


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